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When the wind’s in a rage, then he rattles the trees
And he blows people’s hats off and tickles Gran’s knees.
     Goodness!  There goes a dustbin lid, far down the street,
     And the wicked wind thinks that those tricks are so neat.

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When the wind’s in a rage, then his whistling is loud.
He is mighty, he’s strong and he’s ever so proud.
    When he’s sleepy he teases with soft gentle breezes,
    But soon can throw tantrums if something displeases.

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He whips up the waves, causes storms out at sea,
And he whistles and whines like a screaming banshee.
    Oh he rattles the chimney pots, bangs on the doors
    And tries to prevent me from sleeping, for sure.

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But today the wind’s quiet and morning is here.
He went off in a wink, and the blue skies are clear.
    With not one cloud in sight, I ask: 'Where did he go?'
    Oh don’t wake him to ask, though I’m sure he will know.

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