To the window they pressed their noses close
with a fevered hope that matched the chill
of outside drear and cloud: a hoped-for thrill
a night of hefty drifts and angels made of snow.
But oh what was there to be done
upon spying the sight of such a wet night
their wish gone to melt neath a midnight sun!
They had missed their chance to show up the right coast
to shout, “See! You’ve nothing over which to boast!”
A childish foot-stomp, cap without a feather,
“And you always say that we’ve no such thing as weather!”