hull or hell

of larks trains windows and brooks, the poet he writes it all down in his book, won't meet your eye but he wants you to look, in hull or hell he lies, lambs in the winter and swans in the spring, children at play they're like birds on the wing, and the poet he writes that the sun seems to swing, in hull or hell he lies, away from the world and away from the page, hidden in corners the gathering of age, retreats to the wings where he once held the stage, in hull or hell he lies, the dirt and the filth that we don't get to see, that's eating his language away, this yellow-eyed nastiness hides from the light of the day, resenting the everyday growing so old, where winter once pictured as flowers in fold, turned frosty and bitter and weathered and cold, in hull or hell he lies, his housemaid she tried but the dirt grew so fast, the darkest of colours he nailed to the mast, stuck in his ways like he's stuck in the past