I love winter in December
Some years even into short Feb
But by March it is old
This year
Ancient
I see young people in shorts
But they're out of their minds all year
Or have I just gotten older
Colder
No
Young people are insane
I was
And my friends
Why not
You don't own anything
So you can afford it
Neighbors bitching like cooped hens
The park is a waiting area
Brand new dresses wilting in closets
Shoes too loud on a grey day
Hats that would only blow off
I want a chorus of flowers
Singing their colors
In defiance of the deaf winds
I want female flesh
Sans goose bumps
Parading the streets
I want sex in the air
Hell, I'd take sex anywhere
But we're all still buried
In the cold ground
Under wool and fleece
By taxes and bills
With no sign of relief
Tomorrow says the white teeth
On the dinner time tube
But he's just the Sunday guy
Who can say anything
And disappear for a week
Don Arrup
Satire1
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