Last night we had a thunderstorm in style. The wild lightning streaked the airs, As though my God fell down a pair of stairs. The thunder boomed and bounded all the while; All cried and sat by waterside and stile— To mop our brow had been our chief of cares. I lay in bed with a Voltairean smile, The terror of good, simple guilty pairs, And made this rondeau in ironic style. Last night we had a thunderstorm in style.
Our God the Father fell downstairs, The stark blue lightning went its flight the while, The very rain you might have heard a mile— The strenuous faithful buckled to their prayers.