An English Calendar - Poem by Paul Hansford
January's frost and snow
makes your central heating blow.
February? That's no better;
almost as cold, and a good deal wetter.
March is windy, so they say -
I'd add gloomy, grim and grey.
Then April's showers join together
to give a month of drenching weather.
In May you may see skies of blue
but flying pigs are possible too.
In 'flaming' June the days are longer,
But sky's as black, and rain falls stronger.
July brings thunder, lightning, storm.
Ah well, at least the rain is warm.
August - at last the sun comes out;
Turn the hose off, it's a drought.
September - stifling, hot and dry -
Makes you long for wet July.
October then brings early chill
- and pouring rain. Oh what a thrill!
November - dull, drab, dank, and dismal;
of all the months the most abysmal.
Oh no, that's wrong; now I remember
It's more abysmal in December.
Snow, hail or thunder, storm or flood
don't bother those of English blood.
Let any kind of weather come!
Stiff upper lip, chaps, don't be glum.
Rejoicing in our heritage
we'll stick it out through every age,
and shout abroad both near and far,
'Our weather makes us what we are'
- blooming miserable.
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