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Some Are
It’s warm and it’s sunny,
Though some think it not funny,
That even, in the shade,
The heat does not abate.
And summer can be quite crummy.
With the sweat on the brow,
Dripping onto the ground,
And the means to perspire,
In the heavenly fire,
We hope for a passing cloud.
A thorough drenching,
Releases clammy hands a’ clenching,
As the sky above,
Drops a liquid mantle like love,
As parched lips and soil receive a quenching.
