Rain, rain go away,
Come back another day;
Neha doesn’t want to wade,
Through waist deep water in Bombay.
Muck and sewage come to play,
With germs and disease and decay;
Lets not forget the road spray,
The price we all pedestrians pay.
In plastic shoes you must sashay,
Even if they squeak, to your dismay;
Jeans and cottons are passé,
But with synthetic garb, you’re okay.
Umbrellas are no protection, by the way,
Maneuver them in crowds, I dare say.
Monsoons are the best, they all convey,
I’d agree, if I whiled away, sitting in a café;
But I walk to work, everyday,
Drenched and soaked and in disarray.
‘I hope it doesn’t rain,’ is all I pray,
But its four more months with the Season Grey!