The Storm

The rough old Mr. Storm Is whirling, swirling past He makes the treetops bow their heads And trembles at his blast. He never stops to think Of the damage he may do, He's always rushing in and out And hitting, batting you. He pushes big, black clouds Against the mountain tops; The rain and hail comes rushing down In large, round crystal drops. The storm will soon be over; See the rainbow in the sky. The birds will sing on airy wing, And the bright sun shine on high.