The sirens sang. the ships sailed on.
The monkey danced. The crowd was gone.
Old Red sits high on hill alone
before his desk with bitter groan.
The sun is bright, the trees roar soft
with winds of March, alow, aloft.
A plane is silver 'gainst the sky
as Red hits "SHUT DOWN" with a sigh.
And trees still naked, gaunt and harsh
ignore a peeper in the marsh.
The daffodils have lost their heads
the sedges wave in graying threads.
Once Red awoke from fitful sleep
to find the drifts of snow hipdeep
the worst snowstorm in memory
way back in nineteen ninety three.
Today he's lost a great toenail
you shoulda heard that geezer wail!
So now he sits there popping pills
while spring slips softly on the hills.
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Author Notes
On this day, the 13th of March, in 1993, began the infamous Blizzard Of 93.
The Ides was the fifteenth, when the gang talked barlow to Julius...and he had been warned. Beware the Ides of March! I am really desperate for something to write about, ya know...oh, my toe.
The picture? That's my pop, or his pop, or an uncle, long before I was born...that crowd all looked alike...
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