O September, may you be warm and wet
The toiler’s hand has gathered sweat
The window of his hope is only weak
to the weather’s swing. May it be meek
O March, may you onward march
like a gladiator on an unflinching warpath
to knock out poverty with your sword
For the starving, desolate have the narrowest road
O Feb, can you see the world is red
Storms are brewing, peace is dead
Warm fires cannot burn when fuel is lead
To the chains of conflict, humanity is wed
Can you bring hope to the multitudes, O July?!
The curse on honesty is, under duress, it does die
Disheartened nations can only ask why
after their leaders have spoken a callous lie
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