August To November

August to November It's a game, just when that old depression Will hit & knock me for six again. They say it's seasonal & they call it (SAD) How right they are, but Doc, this isn't a fad. This feeling awkward, feeling bad, quite- quite mad. August to November It's a game, just when that old depression Of mine will hit & strike me down again. As black holes go, this one is the crapper There isn't anything worse or blacker Wished at time's sadly I'd some form of incurable cancer. August to November It's a game just the same it leaves me full of shame How I nearly couldn't tolerate any more pain They say it's seasonal & they call it (SAD) How right they all are, but when it's passed—isn't I glad? More down-to-earth, sadness-taxed, I just say I've had it.