Have put on their golden coverall,
But they fell off the trees like all
The billions of "comrades" they call.
They are not having a ball,
Nor enjoying an outing at the mall,
The advent of cold has cast a pall
And the strong wind among tall
Trees blew them off the wall.
They will be gathered and burned
Not one will be saved nor spurned,
Their glory in autumn has been earned,
The Seasons, they have just turned.
As I look out my window now
The trees are bare and they bow
To blistering winds that don't allow
Any leaves to stay no matter how,
They beg, pray or vow.
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