Raining again, the old man said,
With a smile as bright as the sun
I never mind rain, the old man carried on
As I reached in my bag for my gun.
The beauty of rain whether teeming or drizzle
Is somehow incredibly grand
Never ceases to amaze and fill me with wonder –
Sunshine is decidedly bland.
My jacket was drenched, my boots filled with water,
My umbrella I’d chucked in a bin
With spokes badly broken – I wished he hadn’t spoken –
Oh No! he had started again.
The trigger was cocked, I felt I was ready
To stop this discussion for ever
He raised his flat cap, and the skies turned so black
He just would not stop – no never.
Old Man, have a heart, rain always stops play
Be it Racing, or Cricket or Tennis
Tomorrow’s the final – the Wimbledon Final
And the rain, won’t you say, is a menace!
He sneered at my pain as I pleaded in vain
And he encouraged the heavens to open
So I pulled out my small pistol and with a faint whistle
The train of his thought became broken!
I called on the Gods on Olympias Heights
On Thor with his Thunderous Hammer
Take pity, I cried, Our athletes have tried
To fly the Olympian Banner!
The clouds simply parted and Summer was started
In time for our Wimbledon glory –
And with the Gods on our side, there’ll be gold far and wide
Or perhaps another sad story!