An Ode to March, Occasioned by the Sight of my New Flip-flops, and Composed Whilst Sitting in the Red Chair by the Window, after a Repast of Cold Ovaltine
Oh! Season of mists and mellow frui--
(Wait! Wait! Wrong season. ahem. Sorry. Here we go--)
Bright star, would I were steadfa--
(Oh botheration! That's not it either... do, do excuse me...)
Thou foster-child of silence and slo--
(Confound it all! That was about a hunk of pottery! Oh drats.
I give up. March will just have to go ode itself. So there.)