Gee, I'm in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. It's chilly outside, but tomorrow will be better and I believe EVERYTHING the National Whether Service says because it's part of our government and our government would NEVER EVER fib. Well, there was a teensy little fib made when I enlisted, and then there was the one about Watergate, but those are excusable. And maybe the ones about it never snowing here and everything being perfect in all ways. Here's what they said:

It's true! It's true! The Mayor has made it clear.
The climate must be perfect all the year.

A law was made a distant moon ago here:
July and August cannot be too hot.
And there's a legal limit to the snow here
In Pocatello.
The winter is forbidden till December
And exits March the second on the dot.
By order, summer lingers through September
In Pocatello.

Pocatello! Pocatello!
I know it sounds a bit bizarre,
But in Pocatello, Pocatello
That's how conditions are.
The rain may never fall till after sundown.
By eight, the morning fog must disappear.
In short, there's simply not
A more congenial spot
For happily-ever-aftering than here
In Pocatello.

Pocatello! Pocatello!
I know it gives a person pause,
But in Pocatello, Pocatello
Those are the legal laws.
The snow may never slush upon the hillside.
By nine p.m. the moonlight must appear.
In short, there's simply not
A more congenial spot
For happily-ever-aftering than here
In Pocatello.