The Great British Heatwave

The sun came out in Britain, So naturally we complained, "It's far too hot for living, Can someone bring the rain?" The grass has turned to Weetabix, The bins have started humming, The dog is lying flat out, And next door's fan is drumming. We're not designed for thirty degrees, We're built for clouds and drizzle, One glimpse of proper sunshine And the whole country starts to sizzle. Then Nigel popped up sweating, In a linen summer vest, He pointed at the sunshine And looked terribly distressed. "If there's one thing I'd deport," he cried, "Before the day is done, It wouldn't be a person, It would be this blazing sun. This heat is clearly foreign, It's not from round these parts, It's sneaked across the Channel And attacked our British hearts. It's too exotic, far too warm, It's foreign to me, I say, Send it back to Tenerife, I want a cloudy day. Give me patriotic drizzle, Give me puddles, fog and rain, Not this Mediterranean nonsense Cooking Britain once again." The trains have all surrendered, The roads have started melting, And every single office Smells faintly of people wilting. We queue for ice cream bravely, Then moan it's all too dear, While someone says, "Enjoy it, mate, We only get this once a year." But still we stand in gardens, With burgers black as night, Pretending that this barbecue Was absolutely worth the fight. So bring me back my grey skies, My puddles and my coat, Because this British heatwave Has grabbed me by the throat. I miss the lovely weather Where everything looks damp, Not sweating through my T-shirt Like a badly packed kebab wrap.