A Passport to Blow

They blow, they soak, they make their presence known;
Entering the land, no passport they own;
Wind & rain, mix and match;

Hovering from one place to another, they lash.

Rage Against The Sky Machine

An unexpected bath, a feel of your wrath

Making me slip and letting me lose my grasp

Push me around, make me lose my balance

I’d rather take your blow, than swim to get to where I’m going.