From the Window
Some Germanic tailor
Has washed over letters
In his landlordly signature,
His name flattened lifeless
Into the prickling sharp cotton.
And all the proud chests
Barrel out to high heaven,
And stout yellow fingers
Keep eyes on the timpepiece
As bobbing on tip-toes
Overlooking the workforce.
It's just an old grey waistecoat
With a stain on the pocket
That hangs in the window
So the youth of today
Can pass in the knowledge
I have nothing worth stealing.