Morbid October

October is a bloated corpse
Still feasting on the river water,
Dragging at its surface, and bobbing
With an inhuman blue-green tint.

In November the body is found
And December has it buried,
But murderous September is cunning
And leaves the body waiting for Autumn.

There is no need for cannon folly
Nor weeping tears of lament,
Let the body rattle on toward
The year's end and a bed of cement.