Banks of riches

By the bank of the river I sat down;
I quickly stood up, angry,
I hate it when my clothes get wet
Especially my underwear
But it was only my trousers
A little cold a little damp
With a dash of wet sand
That could be dusted off.

What makes us city rats
So foreign to nature
From earth to wood
From stone to concrete
From bricks to bricked devices
From rigged tents to rigged choices
From bubbles in water to people in bubbles

I hasten to the river

And no longer mind
If my clothes get wet.