August brings sun and flies and heat,
Picnics–awful things to eat;
Chiggers, skeeters, all the spawn
From Hell ‘s own tract infest the lawn.
The grass turns brown; the garbage smells:
The garden’s dead; the ice bill swells.
The water’s warm as chili soup–
My collars wilt, my neckties droop.
Cold drinks, sodas, ice cream cones
Still don’t chill my torrid bones.
The butterfly, the bug, the bee
Are giving up–what chance have we?
We prayed for summer time to come–
But it ain’t so hot, SO HOT, by guml
by Ray Romine Saturday, August 31, 1935
