The kind of hot-and-sticky that you read about in books,
The kind that sends you searching for cool crannies and dry nooks,
Some temperate location while outside the asphalt cooks --
That kind.
The kind of triple-digit pain that hangs around for days,
With blazing sun -- or even worse, with skies all choked with haze,
And "breezes" from the South that turn your brain to mayonnaise --
That kind.
The kind of humidosity that keeps you soaking wet,
Where even when you're sitting still, your sweat begins to sweat,
Where Weather Channel grinners say, "You ain't seen nothin' yet!"
That kind.
The kind of pass-the-ice-cubes mood that never seems to end,
The kind that sends you to the mall without a dime to spend.
It's air-conditioned April! (Or at least you can pretend.)
That kind.
So keep your AC high and turn your ceiling lights down low,
And keep your curtains drawn until the moon begins to glow,
And poke your TV tuner till the screen fills up with snow --
That kind.
Then dream of crisp Decembers when the snowfall is for real,
When wind-chills less than zero are the only things you feel:
A winter thought to keep your summer on an even keel --
That's kind.
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Rick Horowitz is a syndicated columnist. You can write to him at rickhoro@execpc.com.