Some poets are impelled to sing
The joys of so-called Gentle Spring,
While others find in Summer's heat
A fruitful theme on which to bleat.

Still others hear the Muses' call
And ululate about the Fall;
And there are even those that crow
When buried to their necks in snow.

But I am not disposed to yip
Until the eaves begin to drip;
Then, then my ten-cent lyre I claw,
And sing the January Thaw!