Say What?

The sun’s been out,

not a cloud about.

What about my head?

It’s bloody red.

Basked like a fool,

to get a tan. So cool!

Now I’m burning to the core,

no bathing any more!

What can I say?

In England we pray.

So that we can be continental,

although we frazzle cause we’re mental.

Tomorrow we will complain,

that we need a little rain!

Then it will pour,

and then a little more.

We stand and bitch,

at the meteorological hitch.

That makes us desire,

for the great ball of fire.

That burns us to smithereens,

cause of our pallid genes.



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