These winter nights are much colder than they have ever been at this time of the year,
The devil, spelt his name wrong, on my bluish black t-shirt, now frigid as a winter corpse.
Yesterday we heard Mr Darcey had died of pneumonia, what! How be it? In a hut so warm it burst into flames?
I suppose death is indeed an unwanted visitor,
He comes looking, without knocking on the door.
