You needn’t be born a Bourbon
To dream your funereal deluge,
Some climactic climatic disturbance
To rain out the end of your reign.

A desultory drizzle of tears
Is the most that most of us get,
Precious precipitation
But scarcely the torrent we merit.

We’d prefer a proportionate downpour
But will settle for rills swelling
And basements portentously flooded—

Though even some frustrated faucets
Would do, a drop in the pressure,
Ice in the pipes of the world.

Articles by Amit Majmudar