From Scotland’s melting mountains
to Blackpool’s scorching sand,
from London’s dried-up fountains
to Devon’s parched farmland,
from every buckled highway,
from every cancelled train,
from each Saharan byway,
comes a perplexed refrain.
Britons of every station
are keen to know what’s what,
they yearn for revelation
why it’s so bloody hot.
Their agitated query
is answered from on high –
a voice, profoundly weary,
repeats a tired reply.
“You’ve griped ‘It’s always raining,
summer’s so cold and wet!’
It’s time to stop complaining –
you ain’t seen nuthin’ yet.”