Also, who else but a weatherman could earn three-quarters of a million dollars a year and still be wrong two-thirds of the time!
Dry, searing Heat; Earth scorched to Dust,
Rye, Fields of Wheat, Grain torched, combust,
High Grasses green, turn brown, like Rust;
Grim Weathermen remain nonplussed,
‘Slim Chance of Rain’, they’ve aired, discussed;
Why Forecasts earn Disdain, Distrust!
It seems as though we’ll never learn,
'Who’d foul the Nest, could let it burn!'
Exploiters, all, show Unconcern,
For Nature’s Laws, so taciturn;
Of Common Sense, lest we discern,
We’re past the Point of No Return!
Oh Men will do Whate’er they must,
E’er clear-cut Land; kill Trees robust,
Shear Violence, each Deed unjust;
Ignoble Breed, they'd breach the Trust,
To satisfy their Greed and Lust;
Is ‘Global Warming’ God’s Disgust?
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© Howard B. Eskin 1999