Whoa! Thirty below? I’ve thirty above,
round me are whiners in parkas and gloves.
Weepy, sad babies who think that it’s cold
when temperature is ice making woe.
Complaining ’bout frost on windshield of car,
look at me crooked as in shirtsleeves are.
Day’s sunny and calm, but babies complain;
hell, just yesterday rode home in the rain.
“Whether the weather,” is rhyme old as speech,
just look out-of-doors is what I beseech.
Assess the sunshine, the wind and the rain,
dress for conditions, for Lord’s sake use brain!
Brisk is not biting, though I will admit,
there’s some more inclined for weathering it.
Give me thirty-F over thirty-C,
(Zero/Eighty-six compare Metric’lly.)
There’s pease-porridge hot, and pease-porridge cold,
weather complaining does quickly grow old.
Adapt, overcome! Why not improvise?
Apraise resources and gather supplies!
Great-googly-moogly, we’re in temp’rate zone!
You think great outdoors should not cause some moans?
We live on the Earth, not Heaven above,
so please stop bitchin’ and embrace the love!
The love of winter, of autumn and spring!
Whoa, you say summer? That’s whole diff’rent thing.
I can’t abide heat. Lord, give me AC!
Why are you looking askance at poor me?