I’m still stuck in December, writing
Twelve instead of two.
Eight months or ten aren’t different
When it’s ten or eight with you.
Snow or no snow?
Warmth or cold?
Clocks can be turned back I’m sure
If I’m rich, I’m rich in love
I don’t care if I’m poor.
I’m not much just to look at,
Or to talk to or to hold.
But if the deal involves your love
Then easily I’m sold.