The grave is grin to every nobleman
When quickly begins the flesh,
The corpse, to cool —— the livid one, to choose
The earth for bed-companion; blossoms fall,
Joys pass away, and treaties are broken.
On the beach at night,
Stands a child with her father,
Watching the east, the autumn sky.
Up through the darkness,
While ravening clouds, the burial clouds, in black masses spreading,
Lower sullen and fast athwart and down the sky,
Amid a transparent clear belt of ether yet left in the east,
Ascends large and calm the lord-star Jupiter,
And nigh at hand, only a very little above,
Swim the delicate sisters the Pleiades.
From the beach the child holding the hand of her father,
Those burial-clouds that lower victorious soon to devour all,
Watching, silently weeps.
Weep not, child,
Weep not, my darling,
With these kisses let me remove your tears,
The ravening clouds shall not long be victorious,
They shall not long possess the sky, they devour the stars only in apparition,
Jupiter shall emerge, be patient, watch again another night, the Pleiades shall emerge,
They are immortal, all those stars both silvery and golden shall shine out again,
The great stars and the little ones shall shine out again, they endure,
The vast immortal suns and the long-enduring pensive moons shall again shine.
Then dearest child mournest thou only for Jupiter?
Considerest thou alone the burial of the stars?
Something there is,
(With my lips soothing thee, adding I whisper,
I give thee the first suggestion, the problem and indirection,)
Something there is more immortal even than the stars,
(Many the burials, many the days and nights, passing away,)
Something that shall endure longer even than lustrous Jupiter
Longer than sun or any revolving satellite,
Or the radiant sisters the Pleiades.
season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!
close bosom-friend of the maturing sun,
conspiring with him how to load and bless
with fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
to bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
and fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
to swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
with a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
and still more, later flowers for the bees,
until they think warm days will never cease,
for summer has o'erbrimmed their clammy cells.
who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;
and sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
steady thy laden head across a brook;
or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
where are the songs of spring? ay, where are they?
think not of them, thou hast thy music too -
while barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day
and touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
among the river sallows, borne aloft
or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
and full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
hedge-crickets sing, and now with treble soft
the red-breast whistles from a garden croft,
and gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
Football season is upon us
Halloween costumes in
the yellow school bus
Hibernating jack-o-lanterns awoken with care
the white sheeted ghost, no candy shall share
Cooler and darker, auxin Is spare,
Hobgoblin and Dracula, no candy shall share
Football, Handegg, the teams' fan's beg
In the standings, we've moved up a peg.
Folium hues on fire, soon the retailers will hire
Black Friday, Cyber Monday
Shoppers anticipate the mire. They
tolerate the Tryptophan in order
to fill up a van. Winter cold becoming bolder.
Too ghostly for treaties, the cobweb;
No almanac's girth could thee store.
Too clad in your ivy-dark vestments
To map out your march from the moor
Where clash tooth and bone evermore.
A strange breed, no doubting, who pick thee
For weddings, supposedly sweet:
They tread on the grimed red of apples,
Feel snail shells crush 'neath their feet,
And veils dragg'd through the ghost-laden street.
I always think of the first few lines of Arnold's 'Stanzas' in autumn: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43605/stanzas-from-the-grande-chartreuse
Through Alpine meadows soft-suffused
With rain, where thick the crocus blows,
Past the dark forges long disused,
The mule-track from Saint Laurent goes.
The bridge is cross'd, and slow we ride,
Through forest, up the mountain-side.
The autumnal evening darkens round,
The wind is up, and drives the rain;
While, hark! far down, with strangled sound
Doth the Dead Guier's stream complain,
Where that wet smoke, among the woods,
Over his boiling cauldron broods.
Swift rush the spectral vapours white
Past limestone scars with ragged pines,
Showing—then blotting from our sight!—
Halt—through the cloud-drift something shines!
High in the valley, wet and drear,
The huts of Courrerie appear.
[...]
No surprise, Open defecating is his bliss.
Shit posting
Anonymously roasting
Envious and blasphemous
the simian in his cage
Frick your country, he typed,
nursing his rage.
It’s fall today and Sunday,
a leafy smell, I’m smoking,
in earthenware beside me
the firmament is steaming,
in a wrought-iron armchair
I sit on the posh terrace
stirring a cup of weak coffee
while on its lazy mirror
hazes of cream, thawing sugar
in slow volutes of gossamer –
my mood’s celestial copy.
Fall is good here after all,
enclosing and prospecting,
like an owner on his lands,
the meadow and the garden,
what to level, where to dig
and the winter house to build
from these hazels and russets
where your absence hurts so much,
since it’s just for you, if once,
if once more, for you alone,
a country house with vistas,
a lazy sun-dial needle,
wherein the stretching shadows
will happily thread themselves,
and sew in, for the evening,
the glowing autumn moon
into my worn coat pocket.
Whenever we'd get an early freeze in October, my mother would say "the frost is on the pumpkin!". I eventually tracked down origin of the saying to this James Whitcomb Riley poem: >When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock, >And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin’ turkey-wiener, >And the clackin’ of the guineys, and the cluckin’ of the hens, >And the rooster’s hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence; >O, it’s then’s the times a feller is a-feelin’ at his best, >With the risin’ sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest, >As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock, >When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.
>They’s something kindo’ harty-like about the atmusfere >When the heat of summer’s over and the coolin’ fall is here— >Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees, >And the mumble of the hummin’-birds and buzzin’ of the bees; >But the air’s so appetizin’; and the landscape through the haze >Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days >Is a pictur’ that no painter has the colorin’ to mock— >When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.
>The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn, >And the raspin’ of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn; >The stubble in the furries—kindo’ lonesome-like, but still >A-preachin’ sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill; >The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed; >The hosses in theyr stalls below—the clover over-head!— >O, it sets my hart a-clickin’ like the tickin’ of a clock, >When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock!
>Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps >Is poured around the celler-floor in red and yeller heaps; >And your cider-makin’ ’s over, and your wimmern-folks is through >With their mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and saussage, too! ... >I don’t know how to tell it—but ef sich a thing could be >As the Angels wantin’ boardin’, and they’d call around on me— >I’d want to ’commodate ’em—all the whole-indurin’ flock— >When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock!
A Poem in October by Dylan Thomas
It was my thirtieth year to heaven
Woke to my hearing from harbour and neighbour wood
And the mussel pooled and the heron priested shore
The morning beckoned with water praying and call of seagull and rook
And the knock of sailing boats on the net-webbed wall
Myself to set foot that second
In the still sleeping town and set forth
My birthday began with the water birds
And the birds of the winged trees flying my name
Above the farms and the white horses
And I rose in a rainy autumn
And walked abroad in shower of all my days
High tide and the heron dived
When I took the road over the border
And the gates of the town closed as the town awoke
A springful of larks in a rolling cloud
And the roadside bushes brimming with whistling blackbirds
And the sun of October, summery on the hill's shoulder
Here were fond climates and sweet singers suddenly come in the morning
Where I wandered and listened to the rain wringing wind blow cold
In the wood faraway under me
Pale rain over the dwindling harbour
And over the sea-wet church the size of a snail
With its horns through mist and the castle brown as owls
But all the gardens of spring and summer
Were blooming in the tall tales beyond the border
And under the lark full cloud
There could I marvel my birthday away
But the weather turned around
It turned away from the blithe country
And down the other air and the blue altered sky
Streamed again a wonder of summer
With apples, pears and red currants
And I saw in the turning, so clearly, a child's forgotten mornings
When he walked with his mother through the parables of sunlight
And the legends of the green chapels
And the twice-told fields of infancy
That his tears burned my cheeks, and his heart moved in mine
These were the woods the river and the sea
Where a boy in the listening summertime of the dead
Whispered the truth of his joy to the trees and the stones and the fish in the tide
And the mystery sang alive
Still in the water and singing birds
And there could I marvel my birthday away
But the weather turned around
And the true joy of the long dead child sang burning in the sun
It was my thirtieth Year to heaven stood there then in the summer noon
Though the town below lay leaved with October blood
O may my heart's truth
Still be sung
On this high hill in a year's turning
IT’S DECORATIVE GOURD SEASON, MOTHERFRICKERS
by Colin Nissan
I don’t know about you, but I can’t wait to get my hands on some fricking gourds and arrange them in a horn-shaped basket on my dining room table. That shit is going to look so seasonal. I’m about to head up to the attic right now to find that wicker fricker, dust it off, and jam it with an insanely ornate assortment of shellacked vegetables. When my guests come over it’s gonna be like,BLAMMO! Check out my shellacked decorative vegetables, buttholes. Guess what season it is—fricking fall. There’s a nip in the air and my house is full of mutant fricking squash.
I may even throw some multi-colored leaves into the mix, all haphazard like a crisp October breeze just blew through and fricked that shit up. Then I’m going to get to work on making a beautiful fricking gourd necklace for myself. People are going to be like, “Aren’t those gourds straining your neck?” And I’m just going to thread another gourd onto my necklace without breaking their gaze and quietly reply, “It’s fall, frickfaces. You’re either ready to reap this freaky-assed harvest or you’re not.”
Carving orange pumpkins sounds like a pretty fitting way to ring in the season. You know what else does? Performing an all-gourd reenactment of an episode ofDiff’rent Strokes—specifically the one when Arnold and Dudley experience a disturbing brush with sexual molestation. Well, this shit just got real, didn’t it? Felonies and gourds have one very important commonality: they’re both extremely fricking real. Sorry if that’s upsetting, but I’m not doing you any favors by shielding you from this anymore.
The next thing I’m going to do is carve one of the longer gourds into a perfect replica of theMayfloweras a shout-out to our Pilgrim forefathers. Then I’m going to do lines of blow off its hull with a hooker. Why? Because it’s not summer, it’s not winter, and it’s not spring. Grab a calendar and pull your fricking heads out of your asses; it’s fall, frickers.
Have you ever been in an Italian deli with salamis hanging from their ceiling? Well, then you’re going to fricking love my house. Just look where you’re walking or you’ll get KO’d by the gauntlet of misshapen, zucchini-descendant bastards swinging from above. And when you do, you’re going to hear a very loud, very stereotypical Italian laugh coming from me. Consider yourself warned
For now, all I plan to do is to throw on a flannel shirt, some tattered overalls, and a floppy fricking hat and stand in the middle of a cornfield for a few days. The first crow that tries to land on me is going to get his avian ass b***h-slapped all the way back to summer.
Children picking up our bones
Will never know that these were once
As quick as foxes on the hill;
And that in autumn, when the grapes
Made sharp air sharper by their smell
These had a being, breathing frost;
And least will guess that with our bones
We left much more, left what still is
The look of things, left what we felt
At what we saw. The spring clouds blow
Above the shuttered mansion-house,
Beyond our gate and the windy sky
Cries out a literate despair.
We knew for long the mansion's look
And what we said of it became
A part of what it is ... Children,
Still weaving budded aureoles,
Will speak our speech and never know,
Will say of the mansion that it seems
As if he that lived there left behind
A spirit storming in blank walls,
A dirty house in a gutted world,
A tatter of shadows peaked to white,
Smeared with the gold of the opulent sun.
Leaf fall down
Pick it up
It is brown
Replace leaf with turd.
The grave is grin to every nobleman
When quickly begins the flesh,
The corpse, to cool —— the livid one, to choose
The earth for bed-companion; blossoms fall,
Joys pass away, and treaties are broken.
On the beach at night,
Stands a child with her father,
Watching the east, the autumn sky.
Up through the darkness,
While ravening clouds, the burial clouds, in black masses spreading,
Lower sullen and fast athwart and down the sky,
Amid a transparent clear belt of ether yet left in the east,
Ascends large and calm the lord-star Jupiter,
And nigh at hand, only a very little above,
Swim the delicate sisters the Pleiades.
From the beach the child holding the hand of her father,
Those burial-clouds that lower victorious soon to devour all,
Watching, silently weeps.
Weep not, child,
Weep not, my darling,
With these kisses let me remove your tears,
The ravening clouds shall not long be victorious,
They shall not long possess the sky, they devour the stars only in apparition,
Jupiter shall emerge, be patient, watch again another night, the Pleiades shall emerge,
They are immortal, all those stars both silvery and golden shall shine out again,
The great stars and the little ones shall shine out again, they endure,
The vast immortal suns and the long-enduring pensive moons shall again shine.
Then dearest child mournest thou only for Jupiter?
Considerest thou alone the burial of the stars?
Something there is,
(With my lips soothing thee, adding I whisper,
I give thee the first suggestion, the problem and indirection,)
Something there is more immortal even than the stars,
(Many the burials, many the days and nights, passing away,)
Something that shall endure longer even than lustrous Jupiter
Longer than sun or any revolving satellite,
Or the radiant sisters the Pleiades.
season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!
close bosom-friend of the maturing sun,
conspiring with him how to load and bless
with fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
to bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
and fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
to swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
with a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
and still more, later flowers for the bees,
until they think warm days will never cease,
for summer has o'erbrimmed their clammy cells.
who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;
and sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
steady thy laden head across a brook;
or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
where are the songs of spring? ay, where are they?
think not of them, thou hast thy music too -
while barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day
and touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
among the river sallows, borne aloft
or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
and full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
hedge-crickets sing, and now with treble soft
the red-breast whistles from a garden croft,
and gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
Nuh uh, it's spring
Football season is upon us
Halloween costumes in
the yellow school bus
Hibernating jack-o-lanterns awoken with care
the white sheeted ghost, no candy shall share
Cooler and darker, auxin Is spare,
Hobgoblin and Dracula, no candy shall share
Football, Handegg, the teams' fan's beg
In the standings, we've moved up a peg.
Folium hues on fire, soon the retailers will hire
Black Friday, Cyber Monday
Shoppers anticipate the mire. They
tolerate the Tryptophan in order
to fill up a van. Winter cold becoming bolder.
Frick your country.
Great poem
.
Here's one I composed for the thread:
Too ghostly for treaties, the cobweb;
No almanac's girth could thee store.
Too clad in your ivy-dark vestments
To map out your march from the moor
Where clash tooth and bone evermore.
A strange breed, no doubting, who pick thee
For weddings, supposedly sweet:
They tread on the grimed red of apples,
Feel snail shells crush 'neath their feet,
And veils dragg'd through the ghost-laden street.
I think my poem is underrated.
It is. I like it a lot.
:
just say bump, you dork
kys
A fool’s summer sun sinks in:
The weeds recede,
Dreams fall to sleep,
And what was will never be again.
But hope comes high on harvest moon.
Would you love me?
My one, my
—
I hope to be with you soon.
I always think of the first few lines of Arnold's 'Stanzas' in autumn: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43605/stanzas-from-the-grande-chartreuse
Through Alpine meadows soft-suffused
With rain, where thick the crocus blows,
Past the dark forges long disused,
The mule-track from Saint Laurent goes.
The bridge is cross'd, and slow we ride,
Through forest, up the mountain-side.
The autumnal evening darkens round,
The wind is up, and drives the rain;
While, hark! far down, with strangled sound
Doth the Dead Guier's stream complain,
Where that wet smoke, among the woods,
Over his boiling cauldron broods.
Swift rush the spectral vapours white
Past limestone scars with ragged pines,
Showing—then blotting from our sight!—
Halt—through the cloud-drift something shines!
High in the valley, wet and drear,
The huts of Courrerie appear.
[...]
Prove your skills - today's challenge is to write a short funny little poem about The Monkey's Paw
This Monkey's Paw typed this->
No surprise, Open defecating is his bliss.
Shit posting
Anonymously roasting
Envious and blasphemous
the simian in his cage
Frick your country, he typed,
nursing his rage.
Thank you. It's pretty great at not nationalizing fricking autumn.
A long coffee
It’s fall today and Sunday,
a leafy smell, I’m smoking,
in earthenware beside me
the firmament is steaming,
in a wrought-iron armchair
I sit on the posh terrace
stirring a cup of weak coffee
while on its lazy mirror
hazes of cream, thawing sugar
in slow volutes of gossamer –
my mood’s celestial copy.
Fall is good here after all,
enclosing and prospecting,
like an owner on his lands,
the meadow and the garden,
what to level, where to dig
and the winter house to build
from these hazels and russets
where your absence hurts so much,
since it’s just for you, if once,
if once more, for you alone,
a country house with vistas,
a lazy sun-dial needle,
wherein the stretching shadows
will happily thread themselves,
and sew in, for the evening,
the glowing autumn moon
into my worn coat pocket.
Whenever we'd get an early freeze in October, my mother would say "the frost is on the pumpkin!". I eventually tracked down origin of the saying to this James Whitcomb Riley poem:
>When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock,
>And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin’ turkey-wiener,
>And the clackin’ of the guineys, and the cluckin’ of the hens,
>And the rooster’s hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;
>O, it’s then’s the times a feller is a-feelin’ at his best,
>With the risin’ sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,
>As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock,
>When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.
>They’s something kindo’ harty-like about the atmusfere
>When the heat of summer’s over and the coolin’ fall is here—
>Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees,
>And the mumble of the hummin’-birds and buzzin’ of the bees;
>But the air’s so appetizin’; and the landscape through the haze
>Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days
>Is a pictur’ that no painter has the colorin’ to mock—
>When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.
>The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,
>And the raspin’ of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn;
>The stubble in the furries—kindo’ lonesome-like, but still
>A-preachin’ sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill;
>The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;
>The hosses in theyr stalls below—the clover over-head!—
>O, it sets my hart a-clickin’ like the tickin’ of a clock,
>When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock!
>Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps
>Is poured around the celler-floor in red and yeller heaps;
>And your cider-makin’ ’s over, and your wimmern-folks is through
>With their mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and saussage, too! ...
>I don’t know how to tell it—but ef sich a thing could be
>As the Angels wantin’ boardin’, and they’d call around on me—
>I’d want to ’commodate ’em—all the whole-indurin’ flock—
>When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock!
A Poem in October by Dylan Thomas
It was my thirtieth year to heaven
Woke to my hearing from harbour and neighbour wood
And the mussel pooled and the heron priested shore
The morning beckoned with water praying and call of seagull and rook
And the knock of sailing boats on the net-webbed wall
Myself to set foot that second
In the still sleeping town and set forth
My birthday began with the water birds
And the birds of the winged trees flying my name
Above the farms and the white horses
And I rose in a rainy autumn
And walked abroad in shower of all my days
High tide and the heron dived
When I took the road over the border
And the gates of the town closed as the town awoke
A springful of larks in a rolling cloud
And the roadside bushes brimming with whistling blackbirds
And the sun of October, summery on the hill's shoulder
Here were fond climates and sweet singers suddenly come in the morning
Where I wandered and listened to the rain wringing wind blow cold
In the wood faraway under me
Pale rain over the dwindling harbour
And over the sea-wet church the size of a snail
With its horns through mist and the castle brown as owls
But all the gardens of spring and summer
Were blooming in the tall tales beyond the border
And under the lark full cloud
There could I marvel my birthday away
But the weather turned around
It turned away from the blithe country
And down the other air and the blue altered sky
Streamed again a wonder of summer
With apples, pears and red currants
And I saw in the turning, so clearly, a child's forgotten mornings
When he walked with his mother through the parables of sunlight
And the legends of the green chapels
And the twice-told fields of infancy
That his tears burned my cheeks, and his heart moved in mine
These were the woods the river and the sea
Where a boy in the listening summertime of the dead
Whispered the truth of his joy to the trees and the stones and the fish in the tide
And the mystery sang alive
Still in the water and singing birds
And there could I marvel my birthday away
But the weather turned around
And the true joy of the long dead child sang burning in the sun
It was my thirtieth Year to heaven stood there then in the summer noon
Though the town below lay leaved with October blood
O may my heart's truth
Still be sung
On this high hill in a year's turning
IT’S DECORATIVE GOURD SEASON, MOTHERFRICKERS
by Colin Nissan
I don’t know about you, but I can’t wait to get my hands on some fricking gourds and arrange them in a horn-shaped basket on my dining room table. That shit is going to look so seasonal. I’m about to head up to the attic right now to find that wicker fricker, dust it off, and jam it with an insanely ornate assortment of shellacked vegetables. When my guests come over it’s gonna be like,BLAMMO! Check out my shellacked decorative vegetables, buttholes. Guess what season it is—fricking fall. There’s a nip in the air and my house is full of mutant fricking squash.
I may even throw some multi-colored leaves into the mix, all haphazard like a crisp October breeze just blew through and fricked that shit up. Then I’m going to get to work on making a beautiful fricking gourd necklace for myself. People are going to be like, “Aren’t those gourds straining your neck?” And I’m just going to thread another gourd onto my necklace without breaking their gaze and quietly reply, “It’s fall, frickfaces. You’re either ready to reap this freaky-assed harvest or you’re not.”
Carving orange pumpkins sounds like a pretty fitting way to ring in the season. You know what else does? Performing an all-gourd reenactment of an episode ofDiff’rent Strokes—specifically the one when Arnold and Dudley experience a disturbing brush with sexual molestation. Well, this shit just got real, didn’t it? Felonies and gourds have one very important commonality: they’re both extremely fricking real. Sorry if that’s upsetting, but I’m not doing you any favors by shielding you from this anymore.
The next thing I’m going to do is carve one of the longer gourds into a perfect replica of theMayfloweras a shout-out to our Pilgrim forefathers. Then I’m going to do lines of blow off its hull with a hooker. Why? Because it’s not summer, it’s not winter, and it’s not spring. Grab a calendar and pull your fricking heads out of your asses; it’s fall, frickers.
Have you ever been in an Italian deli with salamis hanging from their ceiling? Well, then you’re going to fricking love my house. Just look where you’re walking or you’ll get KO’d by the gauntlet of misshapen, zucchini-descendant bastards swinging from above. And when you do, you’re going to hear a very loud, very stereotypical Italian laugh coming from me. Consider yourself warned
For now, all I plan to do is to throw on a flannel shirt, some tattered overalls, and a floppy fricking hat and stand in the middle of a cornfield for a few days. The first crow that tries to land on me is going to get his avian ass b***h-slapped all the way back to summer.
Welcome to autumn, frickheads!