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. 

1. The Nun
2. A Girls Thoughts
3. God
4. A Question
5. Sleep

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