by P.G. Wodehouse
THEY tell me that the weather's fair,
The day serene and balmy;
No more for rain need I prepare --
No chilly blast shall harm me.
They prate of 'warmth', of 'gentle glows',
They rave of how sublime it is;
I shake my head, as one who knows
Just what the British climate is.
They say the trees are growing green,
That flowers are in bloom,
That bees and butterflies are seen;
They bid me quit my room.
My hat and boots to me they bear.
They tell me what crime it is
To stay indoors; but I'm aware
Just what the British climate is.
The tale they tell is just the same
They told in days of yore.
I know the weather's deadly game --
I've seen it played before.
I call it deadly: well, to those
By nature such as I'm, it is.
One suffers much before one knows
Just what the British climate is.
This is my fixed resolve -- to keep
Thick clothing always handy,
Add extra blankets when I sleep,
And not run short of brandy.
I wager we'll be having snow
Before midsummer-time it is.
I'll take no risks. I chance to know
Just what the British climate is.