Title: The Man Who Refused to Drip ©2026 by ContempoJedi In seventeen-fifty, in London’s gray sprawl, Where soot meets the fog and the rain soaks us all, A gentleman’s dignity rested on this: To be damp as a trout and never resist the mist. We slogged through the Fleet with our breeches in sludge, With a cough in the chest and a soul made of smudge, Content in our misery, soaked to the bone— Till Jonas walked out with a roof of his own. Oh, look at the Frenchman! Look at the fop! With a tent on a stick for each drop from on top! He’s dodging the deluge, he’s dry as a bone, While we’re catching the pox in a cold-water zone! Throw a turnip at Jonas! Give his britches a splash! How dare he find shelter in a watery crash? The sky is a hammer, the street is a whip— God save us from the man who refuses to drip! The hansom-cab drivers were first to the fray, They’d charge you a shilling to stay out of the spray. But Jonas walked past them, quite calm and quite tall, Not spending a penny, not shivering at all. “It’s a feminine trinket! A gadget of pride!” Cried a Duke with the mud on his powdered inside. “It’s a breach of the peace! It’s a Frenchified sin! To keep out the weather that we’re all drowning in!” If comfort is treason, and dryness is shame, Treason! Shame! Then what are we proving by playing this game? What are we proving? If warmth is rebellion, and shelter’s a crime, Rebellion! Crime! Then why are we freezing in defense of the time? We’ve built our Republic on dampness and grit— On dampness and grit! And he’s ruined the whole thing by… avoiding it. For thirty long years, he endured the abuse, The catcalls, the cabbage, the “what is the use?” [Gradually return to full tempo] Till one Tuesday morning, in a particularly heavy pour, A baker stepped out from his floury door. He looked at his shoes, then he looked at the sky, Then he looked at old Jonas, who was perfectly dry. And he thought, “I am tired of this watery cage…” And the Great Umbrella Rebellion became the New Age. Oh, look at the Londoner! Look at the fop! With a roof on a stick for each drop from on top! He’s dodging the deluge, he’s dry as a bone, While the cabbies are sulking on a watery throne! Don’t throw the turnip! Put down the whip! We’ve all joined the man who refuses to drip! Yes, we’re all under cover now… But don’t worry… We’ll find something else to be angry about tomorrow.
