The Raindrop Infantry

If ever I went for a bit of a drive
With Brother and Mother and Dad,
Ten times I would ask when we were to arrive—
How hard it was not to be bad!
No matter if twenty-five times I had said
That I would make nary a peep,
I found myself wanting to knock Brother’s head
Though I ought to read or to sleep.
But if ever we went driving in the rain,
That was quite another matter:
I knew from my botherations to refrain
When I heard that pitter-patter.
I would behave, for—somehow, at my window—
A great army rose from the drips,
Marching right at me—smaller than my big toe—
Yet I was sure I saw sword-tips.
This army was made of small infantrymen,
Small in size, but in numbers vast.
’Cross my window they marched, again and again,
Made of water and moving fast.
On occasion one broke off from his fellows
Speeding away down the window,
Off in pursuit of an “Ambush!” he bellows,
At least I imagined it so.
However long the rain continued falling,
The fearsome infantry marched on,
Insisting I behave—I heard them calling:
“Be good, little imp, or begone!”