My autumn leaves a trace of cravings. How nice to watch them plonk their bubbly blues. There bitter meets the nagging, Namely, Grey collides with crimson spleen of sour overdues.
I treat them all As seasonal and timely. It's cool to feel what is corrupt in their shallow kinds. There nastiest are marked between the lines of mildly put regrets as looming shades Of glasses oozing wine.
It all has been at least concerning But never even eaten me a while. To me there's no such thing as tables turning. To you it may as well seem only a breath of wind.