SUPERLATIVE WEATHER

It’s too bloomin’ hot to bear

It’s far too humid, no air

I’m sweating, wet through

Forehead beaded with salty dew

 

I can’t breathe it’s so sticky

Going out I feel too icky

Like walking through soup

Choke on the hot air, inhaling gloop

 

I haven’t slept for a week

Like a drunkard I speak

It’s horrid, just simply be gone

It’s utterly too hot for life to go on

 

The roads they are melting

Railways bending and smelting

The moors roaring away on fire

Park your car, pop, say goodbye to your tyre

 

We love it we hate it, moan

About it, too hot, too cold we groan

In frigid winter we dream of sun

When burns, summer we wish had never begun

 

For when describing the weather

As a nation adept, far too clever

We simple adore our superlatives

Exaggerate wildly, grand interpretive

 

As Brits it’s by far our favourite topic

Obsessed with it, each detail microscopic

Pored over, discussed, pored over some more

As a nation our weather is deep in our core

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