With apologies to Cole Porter:
I hate Phoenix in the springtime,
(Sometimes it’s over 100 degrees, even in April.)
I hate Phoenix in the fall,
(still 105 degrees one recent year on October 24.)
I hate Phoenix in the winter when it drizzles,
(don’t hold your breath waiting for a white Christmas.)
(We may host the Super Bowl, but thankfully our lousy team will never be in it.)
I hate Phoenix in the summer when it sizzles,
(Oh, do we have to mention this, 110 day after day after day, except when it rains and then it’s only 105.)
I hate Phoenix every moment,
(It’s a sanctuary city, with a sanctuary newspaper, and there are more fatal traffic accidents here than anywhere I’ve ever been. Thanks to liberals in this increasingly blue state, nothing will get better. The present here will always be better than the future. Crime won’t go down, but property values and wages will.)
Every moment of the year,
(especially on New Year’s Eve, when people fire random gunshots into the air–and the gunshots in my neighborhood begin after sundown. Did I mention the neighbors who race their motorcycles at midnight and their brat children who throw “fart bombs” on our porch every time we leave hom, and sometimes when we’re here.)
I hate Phoenix, why, oh why, do I hate Phoenix?
(Maybe it’s the burglary of our house in April or the grafiti everywhere. Then again, maybe it’s my low salary. We can’t afford a Christian education for our children, and we can’t afford their public school indoctrination either.)
Ah, but my love is near, we’ve been married seventeen years, and even if we could find a way to move, the only thing we could get away from would be the exasperating heat.
Two, four, six, eight,
Dear Lord, please help us relocate.
Two bits, four bits, six bits, a dollar,
If Moses leads us out,
We’re surely gonna foller.
