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This is the story of a man who felt the seasons wrong.
He personalized Mandela while the world FISH,
and read playboy neath a cross in his dorm.

The sun set on him,
while the rest heard a cuckoo at dawn.
And he chased the winds in his trunks,
snorkels on, in the eye of a storm.

He could only see while the world saw.
mounting a cantilever suspended midway,
he went up when they all settled down.
And this is the story of a man who felt the seasons wrong.

Trying for a date,
funerals he attended in white,
often asking for a hand to ballet,
searching for a pianist as the kin mourned.

He spent time discussing history with the Math professor,
while his mates chased their humps for the night,
once drunk, he gave the nuns, furtive glances,
all this, on the night of his prom.
Had to be; the story of a man who felt the seasons wrong.

Soaking in the dry breeze by the sea,
he scrutinized the summer chill.
Wondered how the sea approached during low tide,
and how people swam in Dolphin infested waters.
Procrastinate his then hectic Sunday schedule,
only to admire the snow melting off the peaks in December.

He often questioned Da Vinci's theory of evolution,
seldom, if Alexander's Monalisa was actually a woman.
They say he agreed to Laden's globalization,
in hindsight, was it such a bad suggestion?
Pay attention. Think terrorism.

They say he lived it out, while the world lived in,
Was this a curse or a distant hand bestowed up on him,
poor us, we smirked at the Earthified alien.
This is the story of a man who felt the seasons wrong.

Absurdity struck him in racing pawns,
so he took a deviation that was perfect,
and sarcasm saw the world in his innocent charm.
Alas, wise men draw parallel, too bad, only by retrospection,
It had to be no other way, considering,
this is the story of a man who felt the seasons wrong.