For weeks the sun has been shining,
There's a choking heat in the air.
Like living inside an inferno,
And it's more than your body can bear.
The house is just like an oven Inside,
All you handle is hot.
Lungs rasp in the blazing sunshine,
And you stagger as though you'd been shot. |
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For breakfast you glance at the table
And you take a squeeze at the bread.
You know you are hungry and thirsty,
Though your belly doesn't want to be fed.
The bread in the toast rack keeps smoking
And the butter has melted away,
So you take a bite from your biscuit
To last you the rest of the day. |
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The streets, like a sand storm are dusty.
And you choke 'neath a rust coloured sky.
Alone; for the streets are deserted
And your throat is parching and dry.
You look up at the sun with hatred.
With a kind of a lifeless stare.
And you begin to act like the devil
So scorchingly hot is the air. |
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So the next time you're praying for sunshine
For while you lie on the sand.
Spare a thought for this old blighter
Who is scorching in some foreign land.
Who never goes out in the open
For he'd melt away in the heat,
His mind back in dear old England
Basking in some cool retreat.
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