(Reclaimed from Bubblews, where it was posted in May. These lines actually occurred to me in November. Every time I've come back across this bit of Bad Poetry in my files, I've chortled and thought "This is worth keeping, even publishing somewhere, because it made me feel better." So here it is. I hope it brings a smile to some other person who doesn't like damp weather. Seasonal image courtesy of Lunamom58 at Morguefile.com.)
Breathes there a man with soul so dead,
who never to himself hath said,
On such a bleary, weary day
as this, unfit for work or play,
when smoke won’t rise, and fire won’t light,
and sun won’t shine its healing light,
and rain won’t fall and clean the air,
but mist will hover everywhere,
and heat’s too stifling, air’s too chill,
and if a thing’s done, it’s done ill:
on such a day of misery,
the whole world ought to stay in bed!
Breathes there a man with soul so dead,
who never to himself hath said,
On such a bleary, weary day
as this, unfit for work or play,
when smoke won’t rise, and fire won’t light,
and sun won’t shine its healing light,
and rain won’t fall and clean the air,
but mist will hover everywhere,
and heat’s too stifling, air’s too chill,
and if a thing’s done, it’s done ill:
on such a day of misery,
the whole world ought to stay in bed!
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