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Poem by Isaac Rosenberg
The Troop Ship
Grotesque and queerly huddled Contortionists to twist The sleepy soul to a sleep, We lie all sorts of ways And cannot sleep. The wet wind is so cold, And the lurching men so careless, That, should you drop to a doze, Winds' fumble or men's feet Are on your face.
Isaac Rosenberg's other poems:
English Poetry. E-mail firstname.lastname@example.org