An ode to the wind

I was rifling through an old poetry book the other day, when I came across this rare Wordsworth gem which, for some reason, isn’t held in quite the same regard as most of his other output.

Ode to the wind

O, wind.
Thou blowest.
And when thou blowest
I knowest
Thy fatal draughts do wrench
Yonder the table cloth.

Such as a clarion from the sweetest nymph’s
Fair gob
Do thy breezes expunge all crumbs from said
Table cloth
That I should just reach in,
This accursed room
With the vacuum

O, wind.
Thou bringest seeds.
Thou maketh me sneeze.
Thou do as thy please,
You unrepentant goat.

O, wind.
Thou blowest from yonder
The strains of distant Swindon.
Thou doth affect my spirits
In much the same manner
As a bad turnip.
O, woe is me!
And woe is thee!
And woe doth be ye,
And I met my neighbour Debs
And woe be her too.
I said, ‘You’re woe, Debs!’
She said, ‘You what?’
I said, ‘You’re woe!’

Thou art in rural settings oft
A pungent foul and pestilential waft
Amid whose invisible fingers doth the autumn leaves
Stir and bring on attacks of the dry heaves.
O wind, thou doest as thou do wish
Just as sure as Percy Shelley’s middle name is Bysshe.

O, wind.
Much as the horseman jumping on his saddle,
And missing,
I don’t half go on.
Thus my ode to the wind endeth ought.
And now over to Bill with the sport.