This is a few years old, but it still true of me and the Georgia summer.
The Heat is On
Day after day the high’s above ninety,
The humidity at one-forty-four.
I’d like to say it with class and nicety,
How I can’t take this stuff anymore.
But daily that old heat-index rises
And weakens my teeny vocabulary.
Heat kills the nice words, and my surmise is
What’s left will draw the constabulary.
I do try hard to be understanding
Of Mother Nature’s mysterious ways.
Yet, on these days when I’m out standing
In Old Sol’s searing, scorching, sultry rays,
I find it hard to keep a civil tongue,
And polite expression is impossible.
Within seconds, I have burst a lung
Shouting words and phrases reprehensible.
It has been a summer like no other
That this one old fellow can remember.
In case you’re wondering what I’d ’druther,
I am lusting now for November.