The sky above is grim and grey;
They say that snow is on its way
But first, the frost will kill the flowers
And rain will pour for hours and hours
Just when we have to walk the dog.
Then planes get grounded by the fog
And after that come wind and gales
And hail and sleet on hills and dales.
The British weather, we complain,
So changeable, is such a pain.
We long for sultry summer sun
But then, again, there’s not much fun
When there’s too much and we get drought
That’s something to complain about
And sunburn, sunstroke, water rations
Start to be the latest fashion.
I wonder if we Brits will ever
Cease to whinge about the weather
But it would really spoil the game
If every day were just the same;
We wouldn’t have a chance to moan
And grouse and grumble, gripe and groan.
It’s almost like our National sport
To curse the weather; there’s a thought!
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