The leaves on the trees turning from yellow to brown
With a stiff wind soon on the ground
Rustling, rustling,
A pile  of leaves so neatly collected
Beckoning me so they're not neglected
Rustling, rustling,
I jump I jump so gleefully
In a daze of joy so peacefully
To which I must admit this practice I adore
Now the leaves askew and beckoning no more
Until next year my beautiful foes
Rustling, rustling, as the wind blows