My Barometer's Dropping
The fox runs faster than the hounds or steeds,
The fox is climbing, he's under the brush,
Outracing the dogs, the horn and the men,
And Winter is howling about outside,
And my barometer's fallen to twenty below
But, that fox is more clever and faster too,
My barometer's frozen, the chill inside meets out.
Caked in ice cold
blankets of stone and of blue.
But, I wasn't clever, couldn't run like you can.
It's over, it's over, my race its been run.
©July 15, 1971
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