It’s not the rain I dislike as it pitter-patters down

Spraying the windows in its peppering sound;

Dispersing its droplets one after the other,

Dispersing the people now running for cover.

And for every one drop there’s a million more

Cascading and tumbling to make sodden the floor

Where it forms little puddles that soon become lakes,

Ideal for splashing passers-by in its wake.

Then the wind blows it this way then over to there

Directing the stair rods with never a care;

’til wet is above you, below, all about,

Your umbrella now pointless as it turns inside out.

No, it’s not the rain I dislike, no, not a bit

It’s the wet that I hate as I drip…drip…drip