Poem: November

It’s poignant and tender, noble November,
Whispering of the approaching death;
Every barren tree and royal carpet of leaves
Celebrates the nearing end.

A valiant defender, is noble November,
Embracing the coming end and fresh start
But while the last of the leaves fall like confetti,
I find the beauty but bitter and stark.

I am but a pretender this honest November,
A betrayer to what it represents;
It’s true, I fear, that I’ve done nothing this year
Worthy of doing again.

I think this goes without saying, but as we live in a world of rampant asshattery, please allow me to state for the record: this is my intellectual property. As such, please do not copy, circulate, edit, alter, take credit for, or otherwise appropriate this material without my express permission. Thank you.

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