Her smile is the bittersweet afternoon sun.
I think she's the most gingery chocolate
And when I see her I think she's not the one.
I am in love. She is my object.
Subject I cannot call her with due sorrow.
Her subjection may lead to my abjection
I want to see her now and forget tomorrow.
She is the last oblique rays falling through the leaves
When you see her once it is November that grieves
Her smile is so enchanting
That my love leaves me panting
And autumn seems to ask me; is it you who believes?
I stare at the fading sunshine. Cold twilight.
Where did it come from? Was it my light?
Is she mere distraction?
Or a terrible abstraction?
Will she never care? For my plight?
Then I think I know. I always knew!
Like Socrates said, we try remember
It's very very hard and we hate it so.
And then we call the month "Sweet November".