It's raining my Sunday morning.

Good morning, little swallow, isn't roost-time over?
You're late for the flock.
Why the ruffled feathers and distant look?
Look at the day:

Oh, it's raining our Sunday morning.

Then, little swallow, won't you sing me a song?
As we shelter from the day.
A whistle of dismay and a chirrup of forgetting?
Remember we once loved the rain.

Look, it's raining my Sunday morning.