The Weatherman's Blues/A Busman's Holiday

Sitting at the window,
Watching May,
Driving rain,
Cold and drained,
Bucket out,
Scooping water,
Over the side,
Where it oughta
Be, but no;
I’m standing here,
Slippers damp,
No more beers.
I booked a canal boat holiday,
A wholesome, modest
Family stay,
I should have known
At the turn of the year,
With my holiday booking
How the weather was looking.
I could have splurged
Like my family urged;
Gotten a plane
To sunny Spain.

The tow path traffic,
Hardly empathic;
Laughing at me,
And the irony
Of a weatherman
Caught in the rain.

Soaked from my head
To my longest toe,
And overhead
The clouds just grow,
Curse the Eddy covariance system!
How can I impart my wisdom,
With a piece of kit
That gives you shit,
Whenever a bird perches on it?

With gritted teeth and maddening stare,
And increasing desire to pull out my hair,
I pray to the god of weather reports,
To predict some sun,
Suggest wearing shorts;
‘Oh, Michael Fish
Grant me this wish;
‘Cause I couldn’t be glummer,
Predict a dry Summer.
So even if June is as wet as can be,
It’d take some of the attention off me!'