You can always tell its April

By the sound of falling rain

That mystic, mournful music

As it trickles down the drain.

Were told we should be thankful

For the kiss of April showers

As it washes all the grass clean

And prepares the soil for flowers.

Theres another side to April

Which doesnt bode us good,

When that mini, manic maelstrom

Turns the lawn to liquid mud.