Pickin’ apples off the tree: that’s me, ya see, writin’ poetry about all things Autumn. I look for the ripest reds, those ruddy red-heads that caught ’em a stubborn sunburn a sunny summery September afternoon, when the white horn of the moon was floating by in the sea-deep deep-blue sky. I pluck ’em and plunk ’em into a barrel while singing a carol to Autumn.
Pickin’ apples off the tree: that’s me, ya see, tryna be Keatsy. But it defeats me: I try at it but die at it.