Spring. She has sprung.

Here lies the blithe Spring,
Who first taught birds to sing,
Yet in April herself fell a-crying:
Then May growing hot,
A sweating sickness she got,
And the first of June lay a-dying.

Yet no month can say,
But her merry daughter May
Stuck her coffins with flowers great plenty:
The cuckoo sung in verse
An epitaph o'er her hearse,
But assure you the lines were not dainty.

I can't take credit for the purple tongue twister. We can thank Mr. Thomas Dekker for that. Poor chap obviously had nothing better to do back in 1655. Kinda morbid if you ask me. Last I checked, Spring was supposed to be a a joyous season of rebirth. Not coffins, hearses and epitaphs. Oh well. Spring has finally sprung in these parts. Woohoo!