A curious thing, the umbrella
Often held by a lad or fella
Held in the rain and held up high
Between the fella and the wet sky
Always there to keep him warm and dry
But when this rain is gone and forgotten
Forgotten by this lad, or this fella
Well, forgotten also is the umbrella
So caught up in a new hobby, the lad left it in the lobby
Not just one floor down, but one town over from the next town
A lad knows it will rain again indeed
So where will be this thing he will so desperately need?
Above the head of a broker in the city?
I do wonder, will the umbrella feel pity?
Pity for all the cold, wet souls in hell
Unprotected by its polyester shell?
Or will it feel useless to us all
Stuck in a bin at the end of a hall?
Nobody to listen, nothing to tell
Now this fella caught under the thunder may wonder
Could the umbrella forget him as well?
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