In the storefront, the wellies reigned supreme,

Periwinkle, orange, and Monet green,

All sprouted with Macs, to celebrate spring—

At the apex of summer.

 

Every size and color (rain apparel galore),

Besides the bumbershoots strewn on the floor,

That spilled out of a rowboat propped near the door—

Which, in July, seemed a very odd thing.

Bit of a stumper—

 

In plaid, Firth-blazoned, Cumberbatch-printed,

For brave puddle-jumpers, who downpour-sprinted.

Union Jack, Beatles, Churchill—

An extended range.

 

Maybe in winter, but not in July.

And many a bloke asked himself why.

And why here, did the thunderous clouds first appear?

Bloody strange.

 

Perhaps in the Highlands or Cumbrian Mountains,

In winter, of course, it dumped buckets—no, fountains.

And no one would wonder or make a flap—

Over quite-dampish ventures.

 

But Clacton-on-Sea, in deluge, was no lark—

Someone should ring up for Noah-and-Ark!

Weatherman, kindly turn off the tap—

Dry up the drenchers!

 

 

They gave us a list of words–and I struggled for more than two hours to make this work, make it fun. Please let it not offend anyone. Have you ever tried to research accurately for the customs, vocabulary, and authenticity of a country where you do not live? Someday, maybe, I can visit these places, but for now, I can only love it from afar.