O, how I loathe the red, red nose
That ever runs in June;
O, how I loathe where Scotchbroom grows
Its sunny pollen plume.
How unfair this torture mine,
Inflicted with a flower;
While others breathe a sweet bouquet,
I crouch steaming in the shower.
For me, no strolls along the bay,
Unless it's raining hard;
The usual gift of a summer's day
Is head pain like a shard.
Exempt me from the pollen count! Spell
me, if it's in your power,
When inversions waft up straight from Hell
To orgy with the flowers!