First, stick with a calendar That clearly isn’t fit for purpose – Stick with it because, old son, That’s just the way we’ve always done. Tradition is a glut of yesterdays, Where silence runs a surplus – Until the change has grown too great (Yet still two hundred years too late). Then hack eleven days off all at once – A week-and-a-half, just done away – And then a twelfth is added, see, For the non-leaping century. (But next time round – it isn’t, Cos it isn’t, cos that’s what they say.) And that is why our pounds and pence Outweigh our bloody common sense !
Now that Winter’s easing, And the Sun is breaking cover, Then what could be more pleasing Than to wake from hibernating with my lover ? And as the sap is rushing And the Spring is turning bold, Then what could be more crushing Than to hear she wants to clean-out with the old ? We’d clung to one-another, While the Winter held us in its thrall, I thought she was my lover, But I guess that April makes fools of us all.
Now with the lambs in clover And the daylight on the rise, So she wants to be a rover And she wants to try the Springtime on for size. She slips out after equinox With all the world at play, By the changing of the clocks, Then I know the cruellest month’s not far away. With the first song of the skylark And the golden tulips growing tall, She’s off to find another mark – I guess that April makes fools of us all.
Strange, how this day of love Is a day of sneezes and fingers numb. Why does it fall with a deathly chill As the hothouse roses succumb ? Maybe it serves to underscore How love is often bittersweet – Whereas, in the height of Summer, This day would be lost in the endless heat.
Strange, how this day of red Is a day of snowdrops and Winter mould. Why does it fall when the days are short And the nights are bitterly cold ? Maybe it serves to warm the frost, And give our torpid hearts a shove – Whereas, in the height of Summer, Who needs a reminder to fall in love ?
February rolls around, And on comes the propaganda – Singletons are not allowed, We put a downer on the crowd. So February rolls around And ev’rybody has to pander. Haven’t we all heard the songs ? Haven’t we all seen the movies ? Still we seem to get it wrong, And still we just won’t play along, And still we’re far too choosy.
“You there ! You on your own ! Out after curfew ! Come here, sonny ! Where are your papers ? Where are your cards ? And your chocolates ? Oh, so you think this is funny…? I think you’d better tell me which restaurant you’re booked in, And the name of the one you’re meeting, too… You know it’s only lovers who may walk the streets tonight, All spinsters, slobs and nerds must hide from view.”
Ah, ignore me – What am I even getting angry for ? So the world is in love… Would I rather the world were at war ? Go – shout it out, have your fun, And I’ll get on with mine – Just please, never pity me, never that – And we’ll get along just fine.
At the meeting of the streets And the corners of the road, So grows an unexpected copse No seed has ever sowed. It sprouts up overnight Like a fungus on the make – This squatter on the pavement, Brings the Winter in its wake. Its trees have all blown over, And its needles all have shed To the gutters and the breezes, Until even these have fled. Then suddenly one morning We shall find the corner bare, Save the grey of frost and concrete And the chill upon the air.
I overindulged last month: Had far too many ideas. Now I’m a bloated, empty husk Who’s run right out of tears. My motor’s barely revving now, From weeks of crunching gears. My spark is fused, my wit is blown, I haven’t a thought to call my own.
Put away the tinsel and put on a sober tie, It’s time to all resume the working world – Another year has started, another passed us by, So it’s onwards to the future with a brand-new hue-and-cry (While already planning holidays to sunshine in July) And so into the cauldron we are swirled. On the 7:22 with the paper on our thigh, Or page 1 of the diary, with a hope or with a sigh, There’s no escaping progress – tomorrow’s never shy – And so into the New Year we are hurled.
In March the Ladies have their day, In June, the Summer’s mid, And Mickel holds his mass, they say, In late September, come what may, Just as he always did. And then we get to Christmas… That well known day for paying rents, And hiring staff, and starting school, And other secular events That prove there’s nothing new, alas, In monetising Yule.