There is a threat of rain once more,

On England’s green and fertile land,

How sad we’ll be to see it pour,

And spoil the day that we have planned;

But if the rain was rarely seen

Would English pasture be so green?

 

The promise of a sunny day,

Are words we like to hear the most,

It brings us mad dogs out to play,

On golden sands at every coast;

Contentedly, yet parched, we’ll lie

And let our naked bodies fry.

 

Why rain is always threatening,

Does puzzle me, but equally,

Why sun is always promising,

Is tantamount to lunacy;

Have weathermen misunderstood

That dry is bad and wet is good?