(_In Bad Weather._)
Oh! I'm in a terrible plight--
For how can I rhyme in the rain?
'Tis pouring from morn until night:
So bad is the weather again,
My language is almost profane!
Though shod with the useful galosh,
I'm racked with rheumatical pain--
I think that a Ballade is bosh!
I know I am looking a fright;
That knowledge, I know, is in vain;
My "brolly" is not water-tight,
But hopelessly rended in twain
And spoilt by the rude hurri_cane_!
Though clad in a stout mackintosh,
My temper I scarce can restrain--
I think that a Ballade is bosh!
Oh, I'm an unfortunate wight!
The damp is affecting my brain;
My woes I would gladly recite,
In phrases emphatic and plain,
Your sympathy could I obtain.
I don't think my verses will wash,
They're somewhat effete and inane--
I think that a Ballade is bosh!