  No doubt, we all have troubles That arise from this and that, And we seldom make a home-run Though we're often at the bat; But the prince of all the fellows That performs the wildest breaks, Is the chap that brings the burdens Of the weather man's mistakes. "Sunday, fair and cool and pleasant" So you hie yourself away To the wild-wood sweet and shady For a joyous, happy day; Then the rain comes down in torrents Till it drowns the very snakes, And you have a high example Of the weather man's mistakes. "Wednesday, storm, perhaps a cyclone!" So you stay at home and wait, With your windows tightly shuttered For a hurricano great; And you shout, "Of all the fakes!" While you grumble, wildly helpless, At the weather man's mistakes. And some day a patient people Turned to furies by their wrongs, Will arise and smite the building Where the weather man belongs; And whatever then shall happen, They will know the joy that wakes, When no longer made to suffer From the weatherman's mistakes! |
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