A song

He's a master of hurricanes
Keeps both eyes on the wind
His barometer's alive
A pet that he's skinned
And he goes out in the morning
To prove his worth in the great outdoors
To test his mettle in the wilderness
And to claim his unjust reward

He has a thousand films
On earthquakes and gales
He fills his time with watching
For that unrecorded squall
He keeps an old tree captive
In an oak-panelled drawing room
Writes letters to the government
Saying someone should investigate soon

But there's something that's escaped his glassy eye
He's not the master he thinks and by and by
The weather will worsen
And blacken out the sky
The wind will utter its last gasping sigh
To be named such by a child of man
And be measured with no poetry
to become an anonymous vibration