Tin hats on, the rains begin
The beguiling soft drips spatter arms
Awashed windscreens to come,
Theirs is the premon; fortune calling card
Sound out, in street sizzle, alarm for the washing
Such will cajole more tipgrowth in the lawn
From Devon mist to tropic deluge
All welcome the clean but the cricketers
It is a thing to be sat through
Or stood beneath a weeping tree
Hearty drops, their bombs ascend the legs,
Full conquest marched—defeated there is no hiding
Complete, another Beaufort-pushed ceasefire is done
A one-sided battle forever won
And then the sweet smell of victory—ah, petrichor
Bouquet puddles occupy the vanquisher’s delights
The bouncy castle’s treachery slip
Candidates all for sun-dumped steam
Until again the brolly dries
These weapons must be kept at the ready
Bachian stacatto notes pursue the summer’s course
Filling windows with soft fogs, the great indoors
Steel skies drift off, time softly taken
From sea, to sea, vita homines in gratia
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