Crawling out of their green shirts . . .
Coughing a little in the dawn . . .
And the church . . .
There is always a church
With its natty spire
And the vestibule —
That’s where they whisper:
Tzz-tzz . . . tzz-tzz . . . tzz-tzz. . . .
How many codes for a wireless whisper—
And corn flatter than it should be
And those chits of leaves
Gadding with every wind?
From Connecticut to Maine:
Tzz-tzz . . .tzz-tzz . . . tzz-tzz. . .
This poem is in the public domain.