The sun bakes all complexities away,
denatures worries, cooks the books of care.
What matter but the festival today?
In colored crowds, be-hatted we'll be there.
The meadows by the river will resound
with folk song - all the narrow-boats decked out -
food, clothing, artisan stalls grace the ground
and from cafe and beer tent chairs spill out.
Ah, the sun's gone in, and all the grasses blow;
and now the trees sway indicating rain;
best put the raincoats in the boot, you know,
and hope the awnings are good tarpaulin.
For 'Flaming June' is so-called as a cuss,
quaint 'F' word.
Ah, we'll drip with little fuss.
