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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. Isaac Rosenberg Isaac Rosenberg's other poems: ![]() 1371 Views |
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