SPRING SONG
Laid her hand on the robin’s throat;
When up comes you-know-who, my dear,
You-know-who in a fine blue coat,
And says to Spring: No parking here!
No parking here! No parking here!
Move on! Move on! No parking here!
Come walk with me in the city gardens.
(Better keep an eye out for you-know-who)
Did ever you see such a sickly showing?—
Middle of June, and nothing growing;
The gardeners peer and scratch their heads
And drop their sweat on the tulip-beds,
But not a blade thrusts through.
Come move on! Don't you know how to walk?
No parking here! And no back-talk!
Oh, well,—hell, it’s all for the best.
She certainly made a lot of clutter,
Dropping petals under the trees,
Taking your mind off your bread and butter.
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