The winds of July swing
Your hair from
Side
       To
            Side.
Your age shows now.
It's in your color.
Brown fields that mascarade
As mothers spaghetti,
Only yours though.

The sounds of the month are
Those of busy people.
I see industrialism on the
Brown fields.
Busy body beauties, black in nature,
And because of it;

Work, work, work.

They too know the worth of a dollar.