I'm grieving, yes, of course. Look at
Those sullen clouds. It's clear that
They have come to bear the summer
To some distant prison, and, in its

Place, shackle me with Autumn,
That insipid season, so beloved by
Neurasthenics, who hide out
The torrid months in air-conditioned
Family rooms. They gobble chips
And watch TV, ill-suited to
The circumstances which bring
Happiness to me, so now they swell
As I am shrinking. Come, distract me.
Chirp and charm the way that only
You can do. Assert that cocoa's
Nice as gin, and I've no need
To grieve.