The Weather Woman

All ye viewers, with eager ears, attain!
Hark but a moment, and hear my name
For though a name is trivial and lame,
Reputations precede, thus giving thou
An inkling, a featherful white pillow
On which to rest thine head, a comfort gained.

Joan Key, famed weather woman of Sydney,
Who at mahogany desk sits is me!
Reading off parchment, predictions and more,
Like a fortune teller in old folklore
Yet my shirts tight, my skirts short, I wear heels
Ye men need learn of how being mocked feels.

Want thou still thy weather? I begin a-loud
Tonight, a pale moon rises to skies a-cloud
Thin breezes waft between rivers and trees
Thou knows delights of nights 27 degrees
The morrow an orange lit blanket falls
Covering the navy when Sunday calls

Sunday, like Monday next, a warm 32
Tuesday until Friday, nothing is new
Attention, what I say may bear no truth,
I implore thy viewers, search hard and sleuth –
Mine is a job, that I can be wrong
100% of the time, and be paid
To continue singing this weather song!

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