I can tell the time of the year by the low setting sun

it says we must now have the last summer fun

we must no longer walk but surely must now run

because

the last of the summer warmth will soon be done,

I know that you may dread the chill that soon is to come

the hours of darkness are like the beat of a drum

the snow pelts your eyes and shivers your bum

the pumpkins

all mirroring a face like your own special glum,

Then blasts of ice cover your car

and it conks out with something ajar

from making it home from the bar

just remember

the sun warned you this kind of weather was not far.