*

'Tis over; that Summer, when leaves were green

and the clover was so lush that it covered whole

fields in soft green that smelled of Verde.

And now there is a rush toward Winter.

Summer is over and the clover

still grows beneath Autumn blue

that covers the clovers with lovers

and satyrs and priests and paters.

And the young girls with romantic notions of beasts;

and priests; who find their way among the seasons

that have their own reasons for changing among the clover

where lover falls upon lover and horses roll

in the clover and courses find their courses.

And the boys and the girls and the ministers roll

and roll down hill over and over in autumn clover.

'Tis that wicked time of year

when the sky is so bluing that the trees are blushing.

And horses are horsing and sap and seed are coursing

like sex, which is gushing.

And trees are rushing to change into their naked winter clothes.

'Tis that wicked time of year

when the reaper picks the pumpkin

which is full to bursting

and lovers are thirsting

for that final hurrah

before hoary winter drives it's splinter through amorous hearts.

'Tis that wicked time of year

when I shed a melancholy tear

realizing all I have left undone

while I played wantonly in the summer sun.

All those things left undone!

All those songs left unsung!

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