While the majority of people in town and country grumbled peevishly about the heat yesterday, many citizens engaged in summer trades hailed such weather as a belated godsend after an uncertain and profitless summer season.
We stand and gasp in the city street Or pant in the country glare, Hurling a curse at the humid heat And the unrefreshing air; And we weakly vow this heat-wave can Bring joy to none who thinks. Aye. But what about the ice-cream man, And the cove who sells cool drinks? Are never these to know the joy Of a sudden profit earned And a quick reward in their employ While the fickle sunlight burned? But the mercury that never drops Awakes our dismal wails. Yet what about the drapers' shops And the need for summer sales? We thirst, we drink, we thirst again, And drink, turn and about, And realise all effort vain To ease this endlessd rought. We long for grey skies, vapor-hung, And wish chill winter here. But what about your old friend Bung And the steady sale of beer? Then grieve no more, oh, selfish wight, When summer suns burn down, And harp no more upon your plight By heat-struck field or town. Rather, in altruistic mood, Thus let your thought be bent: "E'en hot north winds may blow some good To someone. Be content."
|Copyright © Perry Middlemiss 2003-06|