I HAVE my share of common sense,

But no imagination:

I never made the least pretence

To shine in conversation.

I dare not stray in any way

An inch beyond my tether;

And, when I've nothing else to say,

I talk about the weather.

When Mary Ann and I go out

I long to play the lover,

But what on earth to talk about

I never can discover.

I blush to say I often show

The whitest kind of feather,

And stammer out, "Look here, you know—

Let's talk about the weather."

I've run a bill at Mr Snip's

For articles of raiment;

He always has upon his lips

A hint about its payment.

Whenever Mr Snip and I

Are left alone together,

You can't imagine how I try

To talk about the weather.

I go to parties now and then,

But never find it answer:

I'm forced to mix among the men

Because I'm not a dancer.

I merely put on evening dress—

White kid and patent leather—

On purpose that I may express

My thoughts about the weather.