Wind on the Hill
No one can tell me,
Where the wind comes from,
Where the wind goes.
It’s flying from somewhere
As fast as it can,
I couldn’t keep up with it,
Not if I ran.
But if I stopped holding
The string of my kite,
It would blow with the wind
For a day and a night.
And then when I found it,
Wherever it blew,
I should know that the wind
Had been going there too.
So then I could tell them
Where the wind goes . . .
But where the wind comes from
— A. A. Milne
Where did you get such a dirty face,
My darling dirty-faced child?
I got it from crawling along in the dirt
And biting two buttons off Jeremy’s shirt.
I got it from chewing the roots of a rose
And digging for clams in the yard with my nose.
I got it from peeking into a dark cave
And painting myself like a Navajo brave.
I got it from playing with coal in the bin
And signing my name in cement with my chin.
I got if from rolling around on the rug
And giving the horrible dog a big hug.
I got it from finding a lost silver mine
And eating sweet blackberries right off the vine.
I got it from ice cream and wrestling and tears
And from having more fun than you’ve had in years.
— Shel Silverstein
Deep Sorriness Atonement Song
The man who sold Manhattan for a halfway decent bangle,
He had talks with Adolf Hitler and could see it from his angle,
And he could have signed the Quarrymen but didn’t think they’d make it,
So he bought a cake on Pudding Lane and thought ‘Oh well I’ll bake it’
But his chances they were slim,
And his brothers they were Grimm,
And he’s sorry, very sorry,
But I’m sorrier than him.
And the drunken plastic surgeon who said ‘I know, let’s enlarge ’em!’
And the bloke who told the Light Brigade ‘Oh what the hell, let’s charge ’em,’
The magician with an early evening gig on the Titanic,
And the mayor who told the people of Atlantis not to panic,
And the Dong about his nose
And the Pobble re his toes,
They’re all sorry, really sorry,
But I’m sorrier than those.
And don’t forget the Bible, with the Sodomites and Judas,
And Onan who discovered something nothing was as rude as,
And anyone who reckoned it was City’s year for Wembley,
And the kid who called Napoleon a shortarse in assembly,
And the man who always smiles
’Cause he knows I have his files,
They’re all sorry, truly sorry,
But I’m sorrier by miles.
And Robert Falcon Scott who lost the race to a Norwegian,
And anyone who’s ever spilt the pint of a Glaswegian,
Or told a Finn a joke or spent an hour with a Swiss-German,
Or got a mermaid in the sack and found it was a merman,
Or him who smelt a rat,
And got curious as a cat,
They’re all sorry, deeply sorry,
But I’m sorrier than that.
All the people who were rubbish when we needed them to do it,
Whose wires crossed, whose spirit failed, who ballsed it up or blew it,
All notchers of nul points and all who have a problem Houston,
At least they weren’t in Kensington when they should have been at Euston.
For I didn’t build the Wall
And I didn’t cause the Fall
But I’m sorry, Lord I’m sorry,
I’m the sorriest of all.
— Glyn Maxwell