Tell me now, my friend,
Do you feel the cold again
As the wintertime comes nearer to your home?
And tell me, if you do,
How you plan to see it through.
Will you hunker down or choose a Southern roam?
The problem with the winter,
As it nips and as it hinders,
Is that you must either way be ready and prepare.
If you do not plan ahead,
Track the wind, and save your bread,
It is obvious how well that you will fare.
Gaze upon a flower,
Blooming late into the hour,
With a willful kind of blindness as its guide.
It may be pretty, may be pink;
Vibrant colours, you may think,
May let it live despite the frosty, freezing tide.
But that flower, with its colours,
Is no more special than the others,
And its death is just as certain as the rest,
Because the flower chose to trust
That the Sunlight and its lust
Would give it warmth and comfort under stress.
So the flower starts to wilt,
For Earth’s axis and its tilt,
Can be forseen like the result of drinking bleach.
The flower lacks significance,
Compared to Earth’s magnificance,
And to the Sun, it was nothing but a leech.