Not meeting the brief but written against Keats' celebratory Ode to Autumn,
Ode against Autumn
Season of blistered yellow bootfulness!
My Wellingtons pinch close, yet they admit
Thy vagrant leafloads round my socks – a mess
That then gets trampled through the house, all wet.
Dank paths, well-moss’d and slimy-lichen’d o’er,
Pose traps for unaware or hasty feet;
My rear swells with a ripe bruise that’s full sore
Where I have fallen hard upon my seat.
The harvest fails, while grass, too wet for mowers
To tackle, lies rank yet; wan, o’ergrown.
What Summer had we? Chill winds! Rash downpours
Of rain, that left streams, and streets, o’erflown.
Ye seasons now dance wanton, run amuck;
Your faces’ once-known features shift and creep.
With thee, altered Autumn, I’ll have no truck!
I’d better spend half of each year asleep.
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