August To November Poem by Mark Heathcote

August to November
It's a game, just when that old depression
Will hit & knock me for six again.
They say it's seasonal & they call it (SAD)
How right they are, but Doc, this isn't a fad.
This feeling awkward, feeling bad, quite- quite mad.

August to November
It's a game, just when that old depression
Of mine will hit & strike me down again.
As black holes go, this one is the crapper
There isn't anything worse or blacker
Wished at time's sadly I'd some form of incurable cancer.

August to November
It's a game just the same it leaves me full of shame
How I nearly couldn't tolerate any more pain
They say it's seasonal & they call it (SAD)
How right they all are, but when it's passed—isn't I glad?
More down-to-earth, sadness-taxed, I just say I've had it.