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A poem about Autumn

– by Sir Ian P Roe, 2016

 

Leaves stained gold, the sun sits old, damp window panes begins to mould. Is it cold? Or am I too bold, to wear such little amount of fold?

A morning strolled, hands left scold, the weather forecast sure did mistold. Santigold, oh god I’m old, truth be told, I stupidly sold my coat. I LOLed.

I leave my household, cold temperatures enrolled. Doled out by the control of the weather patrol. But why so cold? I wasn’t told Autumn would appear in such epic tenfold.

But the big question I hold, it must be told, is it cold? Or do I need a thicker pair of toehold?