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
