Water (By Rob Auton)
Water is the smell of a pint of orange cordial
Before you've added the cordial
Similar in taste to the broken pelvis of a melted snowman
The backbone of a snowflake
The unsalted tear of a poodle
The elbow of a puddle
Clear science that allows me to live
No wonder that I get so cross when I spill it
Cordial, my Gran used to call it that,
and lemonade, pop. It's lemonade Gran
pop is a balloon gone bad, rat-a-tat
tat, take that. Gran would just turn and look sad.
We never made snowmen together; old
I'm too old, and the little buggers melt
puddle, no backbone them, unless it's cold
what's the point? She always said what she felt
played the cards dealt, with a certain sadness
as if she'd spilt something, science maybe
a little bit of life, delicately
balanced, tip triumphed, caught in the madness...
What have you got in your socks? Nothing, just
I think I might have, well I think I must...