Thanksgiving morning found me, Before the crack of dawn, Fixing a simple breakfast Before the day wore on. I sprinkled in my Cheerios, Then poured the milk, but wait— The stamp upon the jug, I saw, Was six days out of date!
The funny thing with roses, they start as just a bud; Some take so long to open, they seem like just a dud. But no amount of wishing will make them open up, Like no amount of wanting removed the bitter cup.
We all know the story of the three little pigs— Two built houses of straw and twigs; Not wanting to work in the heat and the sun, They chose instead to play and have fun. And they mocked the third pig for his planning and care When he laid out a structure that was sturdy and square. For he didn’t fall for the quick, flimsy fix, But carefully built a house made of bricks.
Minutes make an hour, hours make a day; Days make months and then a year as time goes on its way. April has a birthday and blooming spring as well; June is time for marriage with announcements in the mail. A concert in the part, a folksy sort of tune— We get that thing in August, and then we’re back to June.
February’s meant for couples— Roses and romance, And looks that say “I love you,” Exchanged within a glance. But what if I don’t fit that mold? It doesn’t quite seem fair; Are loneliness and heartache then, All that I can share? “Oh, no,” cries the wing-tipped cherub, “Please don’t think so small. Love’s not just for lovers; Love is meant for all!”