Old Joe sits on the porch and moans, Or rather, growls, but under his breathAs the storm clouds gather on the horizon.He’s seen it a thousand times in his long dog life,The white, the grey, the nearly black,And he knows that it will rain,Like cats and dogs,Like cats and dogsThey say.Why do they put it that way?He doesn’t rain. He sits and stays,And watches the horizon every day.And because of that, he has seen rain.Rain that drives the birds away.Where do they go? he wonders.Far away, he thinks,But not old Joe,He sits and stays.Except for the time when the twister came.It came on a day just like today.And blew and blewThe house away.And old Joe wasn’t there that day.That’s why he’s here to tell about it.

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