Go Home, March. You're Drunk

(post copyright 2016, Dawn Weber)

On Monday, it's sixty-seven,
On Tuesday, it's twenty-one,
I don't like to gripe about weather,
But go home, March. You are drunk.

Look - it's starting to snow now,
Or no. That is freezing rain,
But wait, I think the sun's coming out,
And poof! It is gone again.

Four seasons, one day - just crazy,
I feel like I'm losing my mind,
But March, you're the one who is schizo,
Though my sanity's not far behind.

The birds are back, feeling confused,
They're shaking their feathery heads,
"This is bullshit. Why'd I come home?"
They say as they freeze in their nests.

I leave the house in three layers,
By ten I am down to shirtsleeves,
At two I put on some shorts 'cause,
The temp's up by 30 degrees.

That's how March goes in the Midwest,
That's March in your average town,
Better stay in the house until April,
'Cause March is one scary-ass clown.

With winds that constantly blow me,
And not in any fun way,
I lie awake fearing tornadoes,
Shovel snow the very next day.

March, you're dirty and flirty,
Indeed you're a terrible tease,
You lead us on with the sunshine,
Then merrily knock down our trees.

I'm done with you, March. I mean it,
You've got me in a foul funk,
With your rain-sun-sleet-snow and windstorms,
Yes, go home, March. You are drunk.