Curve

Arched in death's last throw.
This poor old dogfish.
Piled up on the piled up shingle.
A north-easterly swell.
A good wind for sail-powered navies
Eager to be beyond The Downs
And into the chops of the Channel.
Not much good for nowt else.
N'er cast a clout, they said,
Til May be out.
And yet out she is,
And still this mizz and rain.
And Mr Smith with his blighty periods
threatening all 'a spring's gains.
She rains, boys.
And oh she rains.