Oh Humidity, of all of Mother Nature’s offspring, thou art the cruelest knave.
Methinks time passed in the land of highest elevations hast buried memories of thine evil way.

And so I am come upon Dublin’s green pastures, wherein whose muggy conditions I now abide.
What hast thee wrought?
I hast been greeted by thine sticky fortress and am perplexed inside.
Thou hast made mine coif curl with the angry plumage of Medusa, kinky and taut.

Woe, that my skin hath appear putrid.
Erupting with pimples that doth make me looketh as if I be plagued by the pox of chickens.
Would we be in Denver, mine hair wouldst behave like a tamed wench, mine acne abaited.
Fie on thee!  I be not amused by thine effect on my appearance.

The shrewd advertisements beckon, get the to a dermatologist!   
Proactive be the apothecary’s potion.
I prithee, be gentle with mine visage.
T’is enough to gaze upon my face in a mirror, shall I beget fright upon my offspring in addition? 

Nay, I shall not glisten in the warm sun of the summer’s day.
Instead, horrid buckets of perspiration drain from mine tendrils as if thou hast granted me a shower.  Deodorant sayest thou is strong enough for the male figure, t’will be tested in surplus.
The fruit of my loins know nothing of this sticky environ, born of altitude and drier days, in your stew they cower.

Thou makest the mosquitoes pest about and dine on our flesh with wild abandon.
Mark thee this, we have tired of thy wicked ways. 
A pox on thee, humidity, a pox…