Three Umbrellas
September’s blowing wet again,
Her army’s scudding by,
In tattered regiments of gray,
Parading past yon sea of blue.
I grieve deep for my friend,
Who’s watched his daughter die,
Damn, it didn’t have to storm this way,
It’s just what driving drunk will do.
Apples driven to the ground,
Hopes left dashed, too soon decay;
Cold harvest without celebration,
And that’s what makes it tough.
Musing on a thought just found,
Concerning chances for today,
I’ve three umbrellas for my ration,
And that should surely be enough.
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