Indian Summer
The Meteorological Office,
Known to its mates as The Met,
Has drawn up a chart
And bless its poor heart
It predicts that it's willing to bet
That the weather it promised in summer
And the summer before that as well
Is about to surprise us
In a cunning disguise as
A sudden and sun-dappled spell.
The barbecue may have been rusted
By the time that you rush to ignite it,
And those carefully chosen
Kebabs may be frozen.
Dig them out, if you please. Seem delighted.
The Met Office says it's near-certain
That there'll be a quick break in the drizzle.
Forget Met Office clangers
And bring out the bangers.
Spread the word and get ready to sizzle.
They call it an Indian Summer:
This means they were stupid in June.
But forgive and forget
And do not blame the Met
If it turns out they mean a monsoon.
Bring out all your deckchairs and tables,
And try not to stay over-sober:
If you do not turn brown, or
You're caught in a downpour
There'll be summer – for sure – next October.
