Although no intelligent person expects the wisest weather prophet to be infallible, our official meteorological bureau –- owing to unsuspected “highs” or “lows” sneaking up and attacking them in the rear, so to speak -– have sometimes been led astray, much to the hilarious scorn of the imperfectly informed.
I would not be a weather man And strive to tip the weather; For, just to hear their blether, man, When critics get together, You’d think predicting shine or rain A simple art one might attain With quite an ordinary brain, Sans study’s stern exactions But he who tracks the “high” or “low” Soon learns that knowledge comes so slow That, learning more, the less you know Of cosmic interactions. Dull folk declare his prophecy Is just a pretty fiction; Yet, alter, sneer and scoff, a-sea To find his late prediction. He sends an aeronaut on high, Thro’ frozen miles, to peek and pry For secrets from the voiceless sky; With data most meticulous Ethereal voices from afar Inform him how conditions are... And then, some wicked little star Makes all his work ridiculous. Because a breeze stirs lazily Beyond the brooding Leeuwin And western skies loom hazily He deems there’s “somethin’ doin’.” Then, banking on some treacherous “low,” He takes a chance ... But bright suns glow When he’d predicted winds would blow Thro’ dampish days and flatuous; For gods who rule the rushing stars With godlike scorn of isobars, Or else dead hands of avatars Have made his forecast fatuous. The simplest cold (‘Tis comical) Still stumps our wise physicians; Depressions economical Defy great politicians; Yet Kudos come to even these, And prestige, and the mental ease Of having someone they can please. Often their lore quite famous is. But who would be a weather seer, To scan false skies, with one truth clear: Come rain, come shine, one must appear The butt of ignoramases?
|Copyright © Perry Middlemiss 2003|