Vietnamese Water Torture

Wind and rain beat at the pane
this dreary Viet day,
stuck inside my thoughts collide
in a listless torturous way.

For a country poor on drinking water
it has a Sultan's wealth of wet,
for the forty kinds of Innuit Snow
there's a Viet sweat I'll bet.

Since setting down in Hanoi town
the heat has been a bore,
but even worse the stinking curse
it pulls from every pore.

The sweaty pits the dripping brow,
there is no end in sight,
to that special charm of Vietnam,
perspiring day and night.

The basis is humidity,
without which I would not get,
the sticky filth that oozes forth
as I lie beneath my net.

Though nets may keep the bugs at bay
they restrict the flow of air,
so it's still and hot and damp enough
I have no strength to care

That cold condensation slicks the walls
and turns them green with growth,
or that clammy damp and moldy wet
infects mood and clothing both.

While all around this wet abounds
and the moisture runs amok,
the heat strips will, makes me ill
and puts my brain in shock.

But worst of all these jungle wets
must be this accursed rain,
it shuts me in and curls my thoughts
and repeats this damp refrain.




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