Garden of Poetry

No Brain to make Rain

The earth with tears in earnest prays for rain
On biting knees for months and months in vain.

Dry wind aye drives the clouds at every turn
And so the Sun is free to heat and burn.

Land parched turns morgue for cattle gaunt and pale
And calves are roasted in the naked vale.

Dams dried and all attempts at crops soon fail,
Death dangles round the poor and plagues prevail.

Man can produce bombs, TV sets, cars, trains,
Planes, spacecraft, submarines and machine brains.

To make our basic need, life’s blood - the rain,
He has no way and that is all his brain!