Dylan Thomas

In Dylan Thomas's word play is read, That hunched houses, blind as moles, are spread, Like covers, feather-downed, To hush and muffle any sound, The moon dares make, sneaking overhead. Town named 'Bugger All' backwards, parades Its hang-over from late night charades, Not a voice can be heard, Not a breath, not a word, As the moonlight creeps in, wearing shades. In Under Milk Wood it's black as black. It's crow-black, bluesy black, harking back, To times long gone, dispelled, When tiny towns were spelled, For one to reconsider its quack. Seas are fishing boat bobbled to rage. Boys dream bad, on jolly roger stage. Shops in mourning do moan. Dumbfound town folks do groan. Too late cock, morning's long up on page.