Apr 24, 2020
1 min read
Spring’s a Whore
a whiny sonnet
This cold wet year, the Spring’s a fickle whore
Who turns upon her heel and strides away,
Indifferent to how we prepared her bed,
So happy in her first warm sunny day.
She left us anyway, with aching backs,
Achilles’ tendons stretched and arches sore,
The few small crocus flags she left behind
Just making us lust for her even more!
She will come flouncing back eventually,
And we should then reject her out of…
