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.