The morning found its proper place,
Awake and taking small steps
Like the baby born in her belly.
She is a sickly hope in a thin sundress
Who twirls to match the madness
And reveals skin smooth as satin.
Crisp skies had been preheated,
To keep us happy or kill us quick,
So the phrases keep up with every year:
If she warms up, she just might stick.
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