I HAVE my share of common sense,
But no imagination:
I never made the least pretence
To shine in conversation.
I dare not stray in any way
An inch beyond my tether;
And, when I've nothing else to say,
I talk about the weather.
When Mary Ann and I go out
I long to play the lover,
But what on earth to talk about
I never can discover.
I blush to say I often show
The whitest kind of feather,
And stammer out, "Look here, you know—
Let's talk about the weather."
I've run a bill at Mr Snip's
For articles of raiment;
He always has upon his lips
A hint about its payment.
Whenever Mr Snip and I
Are left alone together,
You can't imagine how I try
To talk about the weather.
I go to parties now and then,
But never find it answer:
I'm forced to mix among the men
Because I'm not a dancer.
I merely put on evening dress—
White kid and patent leather—
On purpose that I may express
My thoughts about the weather.