Come spring,
and coy, amid the landscaped trees,
the red-brick light industrials
peep.
In countless low-lying office blocks
the young man's fancy turns
to balance sheets
and busty typists.
Finer feelings stir, perhaps
to smoky chimneys
or to the swallows flying.
He writes no elegies or odes;
the Organisation Man;
and green, and bird, and graceful cantilever
are lost
in technical reports
and management accounts
and inter-office memoranda
of fiendish ingenuity.
Adding your comment:
6 old applause
