Southward, southward goes the sun–
Mid-afternoon, and day is done.
Nature’s checking her deep-freeze;
Jack Frost chaps uncovered knees.
Other knees, except on Sundays,
Wrap themselves in woolen undies.
Smell that reek of alcohol?
That’s the car, not cousin Paul.
Junior has again turned scholar.
Coal just upped another dollar.
Leaves are letting go of trees,
And scorched, pollute the evening breeze.
Here’s the surest sign of all:
I’ve the sniffles: it is fall.
Perhaps the devil (if we bought ‘im)
Could find some GOOD to say of autimn.
by Ray Romine Monday, October 25, 1948
