Shower
with apologies to William Blake's fine poem
"The Tiger"

Shower Shower



Shower, shower, burnished bright,
In the faucets of my blight;
What immortal IKEA bloke
Could frame thy fearful hot/cold yoke?

In what distant land to East
Slaved the men who made this beast?
On what plan dare they aspire?
What the hand put me on fire?

Shower, shower, burning hot
On my back and on my bot.
And when thy rain began to beat,
What dread hand adjusted heat?

Shower, shower, frigid flows,
What the ice from out thy rose?
What the arctic? What dread gasp
Sobbed in icy terror's clasp?

What alignment, hot to cold?
What false angel made this mould?
Did he grin his ploy to see?
Did he who made the bath make thee?

Shower, shower, burnished bright,
In the faucets of my blight;
What immortal IKEA bloke
Dared frame thy fearful hot/cold yoke?

P. F.
copyright. 2013
William Blakes original poem,
"The Tiger", can be found here

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