October the eighth month - no, it's month ten
How can that be, doesn't octo mean eight
In the marvellous old tongue of Latin?
Someone somewhere ballsed up, they couldn't count
Anyway, autumn's in full russet flight
The heat is on, not outside but inside
The heating bills sadly are wont to mount
In the evening sky the sun won't abide
In open top cars we don't wanna ride
No, things are different now it's the autumn
The season of brown, heading towards white
Getting a new warm set of clothes to hide
From the cold in, like when we were children
Woollen gloves, duffle coat, white breath, fire grate
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