IT'S NEVER TOO LATE TO BE UNCOMFORTABLE
by Ogden Nash
Well, well, well, so this is summer, isn't that mirabile dictu,
And these are the days when whatever you sit down on you stick to.
These are the days when those who sell four ounces of synthetic lemonade concocted in a theater basement for a quarter enter into their inheritance,
And Rum Collinses soak through paper napkins onto people's Hepplewhites and Sheratons,
And progressive-minded citizens don their most porous finery and frippery.
But it doesn't help, because underneath they are simultaneously sticky and slippery.
And some insomniacs woo insomnia plus pajamas and others minus,
And everybody patronizes air-conditioned shops and movies to get cool and then complains that the difference in temperature gives them lumbago and sinus,
And people trapped in doorways by thunderstorms console themselves by saying, Well, anyway this will cool it off while we wait,
So during the storm the mercury plunges from ninetyfour to ninety-three and afterwards climbs immediately to ninety-eight,
And marriages break up over such momentous questions as Who ran against Harding - Davis or Cox? And when you go to strike a match the head dissolves on the box,
But these estival phenomena amaze me not,
What does amaze me is how every year people are amazed to discover that summer is hot.