When the heavens perspire and dampen the street
It’s a rainstorm that’s standard and run of the mill.
Precipitous prognostication aside,
A Wichita weatherman’s hope’s not denied.
There’s a downpour of wet stuff.  My gosh, what a thrill!
When they do call it right it’s a breath bated treat.

It don’t rain in this town much and I don’t know why.
The forecasts will tease you and mess with your brain.
They’ll tell you, “It’s coming; there’s bukus of chance.”
They’ll have your hopes harnessed and pre-poised to dance…
And then comes a mist puff – NOT torrents of rain.
Indeed when real storms occur, all thank the sky.

By the time that I finish this verse all will cease.
It’s much like the tropics how rain comes and goes.
This courtship of rain dance and man with a tool
Can often make forecaster look like a fool.
But we’re used to it all.  It is how nature shows
It’s the mother in charge.  We just suffer in peace.