The Clerk of the Weather

Dear Sir, we’ve had enough.
Do you forget, I think you do, perhaps,
Our temperate position on the maps?
Daily we mourn the collar’s swift collapse,
The limp and wrinkled cuff.
Dear Sir, we’ve got to work.
We cannot all lie idle on the beach,
Or skim, white– winged, the river’s limpid reach.
We’ve got to buy and sell, to talk and teach,
Although we’d like to shirk.
Think of the crowded street,
The roar, the clatter, and the throbbing head
Where shout and clash, and jangle meet and spread,
And thought is irksome and the brain is lead
And asphalt grills the feet.
Now don’t get in a huff.
Pity the pain the stifling town endures,
A bracing rain will work a thousand cures.
Believe me, Sir, obediently yours
P.S. We’ve had enough.
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