It can't work that way, dear.
You can't make the call.
If you did, we'd be angels,
with a penchant for fall--
The time of the year
That ages with grace
The bright golden trees
and the lines on your face.
But winter will come
and it's just too cold, dear.
The lambs will out-spring us.
In summer, we'll wilt.
There's no fun in dragging
yourself through all that.
Besides,
If good things never came to an end,
we would never meet again.
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