It's hot, like a snot in my nose, or a hose in the sun, it's no fun.
Blazing orb, circles higher, bakes the ground, ceaseless fire.
Lumber we, through the haze, spirits dampened, in a daze.
Afternoon, cicadas sing, tiny heralds, sun, their king.
We just cower in the shade, humble vassals August made.
Fiery dusk, distant drums, cruel deception, no rain comes.
In the dark no dogs bark, howl they can't as they pant.
And I toss in my bed, sleep elusive, fevered head.
Dreams of autumn, chilling breezes, frost once cursed, now she pleases.
Fickle things, my desires, cold when heat, ice when fires.
So for now I'll abide, knowing preference shifts like tide,
in a season when the air is quite anything but fair.
