The tourists hate those black clouds overhead,
The ones that blot the sun at two o’clock,
That dump a ton of rain on flower beds
And send the pale visitors into shock.
They come here just to be seen on my Beach,
They come to see Madonna drunk at night.
They never do, but say they did. They preach
Of Gomorrah from sweet suites locked up tight
Against the summer storm. They close their eyes
To the wonder of the beautiful rain
That feeds our farms and gardens. Hear their cries
Of indignation, expressions of pain.
The daily Two P. M. storm dumps plenty
Of rain, but then is over by two-twenty.