Those born of September,
Have Little to see,
And play till December,
Promiscuously,
We prowl come November,
With fall songs to sing,
Until January new comforts,
Shall bring,
We kiss February,
March past April and May,
And too soon seek June,
Till July comes to play,
Poor August, bedridden,
We leave September, descend,
To make love to October,
All over again.
End
-TheAllenPoe
Paris Michael
P