English Poets Don't Like It
It keeps coming back,
80-degree curtain calls
that sap strength
and slowly sweat and drain
the brain.
English poets don't like it.
We retreat to our thin shells
to shrink and swell,
we endlessly
write about the weather,
don't bother to shave
and occasionally rave
about an over-heated climate
that refuses to budge
into Autumn,
but hangs around until Christmas,
when every season in America
moves to Siberia.
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