The Weatherman's in direst straits;
All wrong are his predictions;
Not Bright and Fair, but Drear and Cold—
And so his maledictions.

Now I can give the answer to
This scientific gent:
'Tis not from meteoric change—
But just 'cause She has went.
I've read by hundreds love-stuff books,
But ne'er believed one bit
When sun was made to cease to shine
When "She" made her exit.
But now I know that they were right;
From Sol no rays are sent;
It's dull and gray and dismal quite—
And all 'cause She has went.
I cannot read, nor write, nor think
Since She has went, Oh, dear!
Of compensation, though, there's heaps:
For, well, she once was here!
So I'll not mind the fierce heart pain
That naught seems to allay.
She's went, ah me! but I shall hope
That she'll come back some day.