Each season has it own story,

Each storm has its tale,

And the raindrops, they keep secrets

That they hear form the wind.

Yes, each season has its story,


Its own preference,

Its own crowd.

Summer is for the lovers, the painters,

The heartbreakers, and don't forget the players.

This is their time to shine, even in the moonlight,

They are golden –


For the lovers, well, they love

During the long walks on the beach and in-between sticky kisses,

Holding hands on the piers, sharing hot-dogs.

And the painters, well, they paint this all-

what they see, observing the summer children at their best

With oils and pastels they create their own summer sky.

What about the heartbreakers and the players?

Club-hopping along the shore or in the city,

This is their turf, tread carefully, lest you find

You're alone in a hotel next morning with a note reading

'See you around," – if you're lucky.


Sweet Fall is for the loners and the poets

And sad punk-rock boys with long hair

but no real home…

The loners walk endlessly through the park

To observing the falling leaves,

Where they bump into the poets,(who mumble casual hi's)

Always thinking about how to make the scene a piece of script on a page,

And what exaggerations would sound better in what stanza,

What feeling would be more profound;

And oh, the sad faced boy with his guitar on the bench,

Flipping his bangs and singing Songs About Jane,

The girl who broke his heart over summer, "She melts with the rain…"


Winter is for the corporate ones, and the sadist as well,

Plus the fair skinned children afraid of sunlight.

Well, the corporate ones are celebrating year in business what was smashing

And hoping to find themselves under mistletoe with the secretary,

Oh, my, she is dashing.

While the sadist count their failures and their attempts at suicide (Merry Christmas?),

And the children wait for sacks of coal on Christmas Eve,

The fireworks are the only real light they see.


And dear Spring is for the optimists, and the testosterone fueled boys

For the girls in Cancun, and San Juan,

Add in their first-grade sisters, plus the environmentalists as well.

Well the optimist dreams up new dreams,

smiling through the hallways of life, it's deadly you know,

But they are so romantic, (or naïve?)

Good news for the ocean boys, spring break is here,

The girls run for the skimpiest bikinis the can get into,

Slinking up to their parents, "Money for the yacht?"

The environmentalists are watching the roses and dandelions bloom,

Then get trampled by small girls in pigtails chasing butterflies and short boys,

"Speak to your plants and they will grow."

Reassurance.


Oh yes, each season has its crowd, but summer is for the lovers.

Long walks under stars, wet kisses in the ocean;

Songs about eternal romance, (oh how they lie)

The night scene will play you.


Going to sleep in the sand, this moonlit affair,

Whispering "don't let go," when no-one was ever really

Holding on,

And soon, the love is all gone.