Thou art more sticky and more desperate.
Violent winds shake the acrid smell of hay,
And summer's o'er-stayed by the second date.
My eyes have to squint to behold your face,
And its not the shine divine of your span;
Nor a simple stare to liven the chase,
I'm just scared of the glare from your fake-tan.
Summer must pass swifter than all seasons,
Or parch each tree to a sterile splinter.
In you swing with no escape, no reason,
With more death than spring, more pain than winter.
So long as you cling, clam, suffocate me,
So long the drought extends because of thee.