In summer, things can go to pot;
Who can work when it’s too hot?
Winter’s made for work, I’m told,
But who can work when it’s so cold?
Who wants to slave like anything
In the gentle months of spring?
And who can turn to work at all
When the leaves turn in the fall?
Not me! The underlying reason:
Effort’s always out of season.
by Ray Romine Sunday, July 2, 1950
