Here come the forties and fifties again,
The dreary temperatures when nothing's right
And there's no sun or snowfall coming, when
Life is a holding pattern - or a blight.
Here come the days you don't get out of bed
If you can help it, when the pointless air
Seems half-apologetic, when we shed
The crisp and chilly winter, but don't dare
To hope for warmth and summer, the false spring
That should be green and growing, but is not,
The time when birds do not desire to sing,
And days seem nothing but an endless blot
Of mere existence. Why must we return?
Compared to this, I think I'd rather burn.
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