Oh, when’s it again we’ll see the sun?
Oh, when’s it again we can have some fun?
There’s mud and rocks tumblin’ down the side of mountains;
the flooding is making seas out of highways;
waterlogged roots make trees fall in the forests.
Better rig my boat to get out to the ocean—
I can launch from the back of my house in the lake-yard.
And it’s a hard….
A hard rain continues to fall.

Oh, when’s it again we’ll have some fun?
Oh, when’s it again we will see the sun?
I used to live on a street, but the flooding has drowned it;
out on the highway, a car’s lost and nobody’s found it;
many branches have fallen, and down wires are sizzlin’;
men and women now to much higher ground are fleein’;
if they don’t skedaddle, they’re covered with water;
I’m seeing no more walkers—in pools they’re all soakin’.
Saw the sun years ago; to shine it’s now unwillin’
And it’s a hard….
A hard rain makes waterfalls.

Oh, when’s it again here, the warm sun?
Oh, when’s it again we’ll go out and run?
I hear rumbles of thunder early in the mornin’;
heard the roar of a wave that could drown the whole world.
At least with these monsoons, the forests ain’t blazin’
Sycamores, cedars, eucalyptus ain’t blisterin’;
reservoirs are fillin’ so there still can be quaffin’.
But the water’s poolin’ on the roof and in gutters.
It keeps falling down, and it’s filling the valleys.
And it’s a hard….
A hard rain’s part of the squall.

At least it ain’t sleet that has begun
rainfall in sheets means we can’t see the sun.
It’s with us at dusk, with us in the gloaming;
the main street in my town resembles a bog,
and nobody knows when the tide will be turning;
because there’s no sun, there is no rainbow
arcing in splendor in the sky above.
It’s with a Noah-like plan we seem to be fated.
And it’s a hard….
A hard rain enters the hall.
From the clouds, a continuous rain run;
here comes another round, like a machine gun.
I cannot go out ’cause the rain keeps a-falllin’…
can’t be a walker ’cause of depth of the torrent.
Many people hunker down—they fear that they’ll be drenches;
sewers are overflowing, and flowing is flotsam;
the rushing waters create many a pavement schism.
Nothing quite as bad as this could one ever envision;
tall buses are muddy and shoe soles are sodden;
on track for collapse of our bomb-shelter bunker.
We can’t quell it or kink it; it creeps in and seeps in.
There’s wreckage around us mountin’, and dry we ain’t keepin’.
Now this land is an ocean—the storms are all linkin’.
It’s all enough to drive a person to drinkin’.
Well, I am parched….
I’m so parched, I’ll have a highball.