Perhaps some future different spring
Of something lovely I can sing,
Like bees and buds and butterflies,
And tulips we so highly prize.
The robins building in our trees
Don’t seem to mind the wintry breeze
Like I do.
But April 21st is here–
In point of fact, the summer’s near–
And all the weather we have had
Has been the kind that’s mostly bad.
The milkman, whistling tuneless tune
Evidently doesn’t pine for June
As I do.
Sometimes, I think the fault is mine,
The lack of warm and dearth of shine:
For the more we kick and fret and fizz,
The worse the blank-blank weather is;
The weatherman, I’m sure, is sore,
For no one hounds him anymore
Than I do.
Yes, if I squawk for dry or wet,
He hands us just the oppo-set;
To moan about this ghastly spring
But brings us more same sort of thing.
Take heed: endeavor not to fan
The smouldering, fitful weatherman
Like I do.
Commend his cold wet snowy spring,
And, lying, all his praises sing;
Pour not invective on his head,
Vituperate on mine instead:
Then, if he fall into the trap,
We’ll have some spring in MAY—PERHAP!
( We USED to ! )
by Ray Romine Wednesday, April 21, 1943
