Classic Poem

Comes the autumn chill and sere,
Saddest time of all the year!
Back from woodland, fen and brake,
Back from seashore, back from lake,
Back from mountain, beach and farm,
Home we come in endless swarm.
Summer's golden days forgot.
Are we sad? I'll say we're not.

Gone the quiet summer night,
Waking ere the day is light,
Roused by sounds of barnyard fight,
Din to scare a Bedlamite.
Baby petrified by fright.
Then to breakfast. Joyous sight,
Though the eggs don't taste just right,
And the milk is thin though white.
To the woods we now take flight,
Vainly try with all our might
To find the country's famed delight,
Joys of which the poets write.
Comes the poison ivy's blight,
And the dread mosquito bite.
Back we go, disgusted quite.
Then our host, a rustic wight,
Ezra Doosenberry hight,
Thinks he has to be polite,
Tells us jokes and stories trite.
Eight P.M. we're sleeping tight.

Autumn comes. Those joys are done.
And are we glad? You said it, son!