The kind of hot-and-sticky that you read about in books, The kind that sends you searching for cool crannies and dry nooks, Some temperate location while outside the asphalt cooks -- That kind. The kind of triple-digit pain that hangs around for days, With blazing sun -- or even worse, with skies all choked with haze, And "breezes" from the South that turn your brain to mayonnaise -- That kind. The kind of humidosity that keeps you soaking wet, Where even when you're sitting still, your sweat begins to sweat, Where Weather Channel grinners say, "You ain't seen nothin' yet!" That kind.