The Heat is On

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.