Why we're married to the weather
Why we're married to the Weather
The British Summer ebbs and flows, and with it moans of wrath and woe
They wait for months to see sun, they speculate will it come
It arrives… and within a week, they speak of burnt alive
It lasts for days or maybe weeks, the heatwave cooks, they act like freaks!
Too hot to work - life shuts down, or walk? They put their foot down
Does talk cease… no, we’d be so lucky for five minutes peace
The air conditioning breaks down, the shops sell out of hand-held fans
The ice cream prices triple, my favourite raspberry ripple
Then rain comes… and all you hear, can't we have a bit of sun?
The rain is fine, hardly monsoon, the fine stuff that still wets you through
The brolly blown and battered breaks, the drains are blocked, the mud is caked
The garden… I've a watering can, still a hosepipe ban
The leaves turn gold and gently fall, the clocks go back the darkness calls
The autumn colour palette, Nature's cue to hibernate
But travel… plans are stopped, because the leaves the lines have blocked
The winter brings it's usual tasks; road closures, drifts and icy blasts
The children play in snow storms, the snowmen built in quick form
And nature… stirs a surprising crop, the wakened snowdrop
The April showers, the Mayday flowers, the country fayres washed out for hours
We British moan every twist, but yet we cannot resist
Like a spouse… we whinge and grouse, not a change would we arouse
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