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,