Oh September!
You hurt me then,
You hurt me now,

Years ago, you rotted the course,
And today left is, the sore corse.

This distaste, is truly you,
Or being employed by one?

You’ve seen me weeping, dying,
Ten less than forty days, should I be waiting?

Finer are those rest elevens,
You hold, loads of aching ravens.

Next when you’ll arrive, bring me a death,
Heart has aged, need no lifeless breath.

Oh September,
I’m amassing my ember.

(02:00)