In a limp leather binding.

What a horrible day. Chill and blowy and rainy and miserable.

I found this poetry book in a charity shop, I didn't buy it. The poems seemed to be of the - doesn't scan, doesn't rhyme, doesn't do anything for me - sort.

'He lit a cigarette, I watched him with half closed eye,
My heart holding an unquenched fire.'

I stick with Ogden Nash,