It appears there are those who enjoy, I suppose,
The cobalt blue skies of Corfu;
But I'd rather jog in a fine London fog
Under skies of a gun-metal hue.
The dampness and chill, they quite fill the bill
When I'm strolling past Bryanston Square,
And I'm keen to embark on a trip to Green Park
When a delicate mist's in the air.
Friendly, not heinous, the permanent grayness
O'er Kensington, Holborn, Big Ben;
How fondly it hovers! How fondly it covers
The churches of Christopher Wren!
So I will eschew the bright glare of Corfu
And remain where the rain-clouds are spittin',
Reserving my praise for those overcast days
In the capital climate of Britain.