The English climate is a thing of jest,
A matter of derision, and a mockery.
Let but the wind blow ten days from the west,
The Parson’s field is washed into the rockery;
Then to the east it turns, and from the fringe
Of grew old Tom’s moustache depends an icicle.
Southward it veers; at one his bootsoles singe,
The melting tyres run liquid from his bicycle.
But let rude Boreas sit back and roar,
Drumming his heels and chanting his wild litany-
The tithe-barn totters, and the diary door
Flies through the air and comes to earth in Brittany.
That’s why the English skins are like red leather,
And why their language is so widely dissipated-
They fled abroad to dodge the English weather,
The always turned our worse than they anticipated.
By R. P. Lister
in John Bull (magazine)
November 17, 1956