In that grey sky some streaks;
Ah no, it's fixed as fixed can be,
As fixed as your Beau fixe.
No matter, we get used to rain,
And mop our streaming cheeks,
Quite sure, when we get home again,
You cannot say Beau fixe.
At last, all soaked, we stagger in—
One's clothing simply leaks—
And still you say, through thick and thin,