It is the August holiday, put on your rubber wellies,
Your oilskins and sou’westers, there’s forecasts on your tellies,
You’ll need your umbrella and your best wooly scarf,
The state of British summer is enough to make you barf.
The river’s overflowing, there’s black clouds in the sky,
And we look at all those raindrops and, frankly, want to die.
It’s wet and grey and cloudy, there is no sky of blue,
It’s time to move to Africa, I’m going soon, are you?
I feel cold winter coming, the chilly Autumn wind,
And the covenant of summer, it seems, God did rescind.
So grab your winter woolies, your ear muffs, thermal socks,
It seems the sun of summer is floundering on the rocks.
There is no warmth or sunshine, just wind and cold and rain,
And the mellow days of August will ne’er be seen again.