It’s plain insane to complain of the rain,
Those few times you find blue skies kind of grey.
How often do drops soften stiffened grain,
Assuaging raging thirsty crops in May?
I’ll wager major wonga* you may say
This rain’s a pain, a drain on stayin’ power,
But think: we drink and wash our stink away,
Fill kettles, thrill to petals of real flower,
All met from wetness. Let’s not fret; this shower
Is sure to pour more of life’s store again
In just the dust it must restore; that clay
Adam and Madam had in ’em that hour
In Eden; feedin’ em, breedin’ ole Cain,
But leadin’ to the freedom of today.
Wed 9 May 2007
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