I strip myself of clothing,

That coarse and final skin.

Ashamed of my old patterns,

The fabric’s rather thin.

But once the frost comes falling,

Like bullets from God’s gun,

I eagerly await my coat

To cover everyone.

For brains are so much silly things

To think they’ve always won,

And break down as the midnight moon

Comes sailing past the sun.

I spear my dreams with bayonets

And hope they don’t return.

In place I guard my only hope,

The autumn leaves will turn.