Usually, come each September,
I dread old Jackie Frost’s approach.
As warm days spurn us, we stoke the furnace–
To just the door may he encroach.
He makes me wear my gloves and ear-muffs,
And store away my bathing suit;
He over-powers my choicest flowers
In the hey-day of their yout’.
All the pumpkins and the melons
Give up at his frigid step.
Just the squirrels (boys and girrels)
Seem infected with his pep.
Our summer, though, has been so ghoulish
My garden isn’t quite the same;
For such a zany, wet and rainy,
I can hardly take the blame.
So THIS year, Jack, you’re welcome, really,
I’ll trade my linens for my tweeds–
You I’ll pardon in the garden–
Hurry, boy, and KILL THOSE WEEDS!
by Ray Romine Thursday, September 16, 1943