Poem
July flies off on heavy wings
And August shakes her fiery head.
Then sleepers rise from off the springs
And shake the cobwebs on the bed.
The languid hand grasps at the staff,
The booted foot attempts the floor,
The plaster face assumes a laugh
Which lights a stagger to the door.
But all too soon the stick will slip
The boot will tumble in the air,
And chill September’s bitter nip
Shall freeze a body on the stair.
Refer to: Nov 2021 – Oh my days!