May the rain, fall soft upon your fields,
I’ve heard the Irish say.
But, as I watch it fall again,
enough, is enough, I say.
And may the wind, be at your back,
is another thought of their’s.
But, I just heard the oak tree crack,
and it gave me quite a scare.
But, if the road should rise, to meet me,
then I will truly fret.
For concrete has, but little give,
grab the family, and the pets.
And, if I am gone an hour,
before the devil knows, I’m gone,
I’m sure, that she will find me,
and, it will not take her long.