The calendar has quirks and tricks
You’ll notice now at once;
The passage of the time and days
Will vary with the months.
The second month is shortest, yet
It creeps with glacial pace
While January — frigid, drear,
Is tortoise in the race.
The wilting two of summer’s peak
Count thirty-one, but my!
You’d swear a hundred days for each
Beneath that burning sky.
And yet, a couple blessed months
In spring — again, in fall —
Their days whiz past at lightning speed…
They’re hardly here at all!