[With apologies to anyone with eyes for my inability to write poetry]
I like the summer thing a lot
I even like the very hot
that summer brings,
and feel no need to whine
no need at all, except for maybe just a bit
about the temperature, to whit
it wouldnt be entirely shit
if maybe it was just a lit
tle cooler. You know, in the night.
And, maybe in the sun (outside).
And possibly at work, inside
And in the train,
the gyms insane
ly hot: does drain
and now I think of it, again,
cool in the office would be nice
and, at risk of mentioning this twice
I think that aircon, while a sin
is quite acceptable within
a modern office.
Still. Summer. Its v.good.
I mention solely lest you should
consider constructive advice I offer
kin to whinging – ungrateful for a
bout of sunny lovely weather.
Which Im not. Its great. Im happy.
Couldnt like it more. Unless
some charitable soul put out
these burning, boiling, firey trousers
that trouble me still, even yet
as I write this – yin-yang upset
by ovened organs, likely threat
of complete meltdown.
Apart from that its great.
Though dear GOD let
us not speak, let
us vigorously forget
on pain of get
ting thrill-of-hometime wet
the serious threat
the odds-on bet
the filthy expectation met
of a train full of people that really smell.
Still. Summer. Its a lovely thing
a glorious thing
has fucking nothing on this season
this is just ace, and for some reason
even though were sitting here
all whinging, whining, sweating were
neglecting to remember
that in darkness of november well look back upon these days
and pine for them, all grump and skittish.
Because thats just what we DO (were British).
So. Summer. Like it. Enjoy days
of sweaty knickers, muggy haze
of pollution. Your sunburnt arms
are testament to something rare.
Though Britain has its list of charms
the weather is not counted there.
Enjoy it while you can,
Ye Britons standing pale and wan
before the torrent of sunshine
confused, not knowing what to do:
although its scary, and its new;
it isnt nasty, or malign,
(And if someone could invent
that trousair-con I would present
with some great prize the genius concerned.)
(Scissors dont count).