January came, and January left.
January burned like a Northern wind.
Had I a dime, for every time I caught your reflection in the firing line, I'd buy the fucking world a Coke, and shove their laughter down their throats.
I dreamed of you in the month of Two.
In the month of Three, I couldn't dream.
April didn't mean much more.
May and June was a silent war - for me and Mine!
But, I don't mind.
I hear they're doing it all the time.
I'll be fine until July.
July, July...you're a fucking lie!
you're a sycophant!
A grinning dog, with a brightly painted hand grenade.
The month of a Tyrant you'll find in Eight.
The rabbit died - I'm way too late.
The month of Nine, and 5 in Ten
predicts the time for all to end
November's here,
and the saints came marching in
on top of us.
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