Rain

From far away the thunderhead does roar.
It blows its coming, trumpeting the storm;
It's pround of all effects it holds in store
And boldly calls so all will be forewarned.

The power billowing on high-skyed wall,
The whiteness flecked with wounds of sorrowed grey.
So massive does it move--it seems to stall--
Larthargically the mass comes on its way.

However from its high and gilded throne
He saw the bright and sunny, long Monday.
The many people going to work and to home,
And, touched, decided to storm another day.

He just put a bit of a heavy drizzle in place
To wet the road and splash the Earth's face.