O, mass of powdery tassels
O, mass that can kiss my assels
Was it not just days ago
Those trees stopped dumping leaves below?
And now we must contend with you
Thou itchy wad of arboreal gradue
Mark, one can only go so far
As you befoul and stain my car
But beseechings of, “Stop it, please!”
Fail to quell your reign of sneeze
Just be warned foul organic pile
Your end is target of my wiles
And the cure for that of which I tire?
‘Tis FIRE! FIRE! FIRE! FIRE!