Black Autumn

 

(as dictated by Tim)

There's nothing mellow
About this fellow.
Far be it from me
To disagree with John Keats
But it's not frightfully fruitful
(Like those little Shredded Wheats).

Wet, wild and wearisome ~
The truth must now be told.
This most dismal of seasons
Does not deserve an ode.
Yes, the colours may be pretty
But the weather is so shitty.

Autumn. It comes all of a sudden
And it comes in hard,
Like a right dirty bastard.
It steams into your Granny's dinette
With mud on its boots
And lays an icy hand on your vitals.
(Are it and winter in cahoots?)

The days shorten into grey interludes.
The wind in the trees
Which once whispered "Febreze"
Now screams "GET INSIDE!"
Leaves commit suicide.
The stark, sciatic branches are
Now hung with dungarees.

Conkers are for plonkers.
Besides, aren't they now illegal?
I saw some conkerers being apprehended
Whilst out walking the village beagle.
My spirit withered as the summer ended
So throw me on the bonfire. Give three cheers!
Whoosh ~ There goes my kilt, over my head,
Those horses will be in therapy for years.

B.R. 11/10/2013