March comes marching,
Desperately searching,
Seeking flamboyant spring,
Errant snow falling,
What drifting flakes will bring,
Cascading crystal tears,
Winter refusing,
Cold season still calling,
Old man stalling,
Blatantly clear,
What good cheer?
Gripping forlorn land,
Stripping hope with a feral hand,
Snow and ice nipping,
Clipping spring in the waiting bud,
Ardent April waiting round the anxious bend,
Gray skies dripping cold tears,
Winter reminding us,
All those wintry fears,
As the land goes hungry,
What a barren muss,
As the cruel north wind crows angrily,
What a fruitless growling fuss,
March comes tramping,
Parading and camping,
Lest we forget,
March is oft still winter time,
Old man beset,
Harassing northern climes,
With snow and ice and rime,
While cheery May waves,
Anchored by a distant future,
When new green leaves rave,
Where fresh eggs are born,
New fruit created on vibrant spurs,
New sweet grass grows then is shorn,
Quirky summer waits with its lively haste,
Knowing heat waves are her eccentric muse,
While harried March sits dormant and forlorn,
Reminding bemused winter of its haunting taste,
Around the cruel bend as wretched January taunts,
Pathetic February grappling with many arctic wants,
So gelid March waits unsated and berated,
Grooming the land with its familiar gaunt.