September shook the streets and left a sedimented sky
And a countenance that accounted for a crime

Summer left me sweet, unfit for such a sad surprise
Summer left you supple and supine

I was poised, oh can't you tell?
Pursuit doesn't suit me well
I'm sick with this sickly smell
And these truths will only serve
To sell to someone, to tell to someone else

But you don't know if my eyes are green or blue
And I guess it all depends on point of view

Cinders soaked the streets and left them empty and enshrined
Cross it off of calendar time

I set it up!