Moaning, keening, on autumn day,
Speak of funerals far away,
Singing loud on summers night,
Cackling with madman�s delight.
Playing gaily with fall leaves,
Whistling, groaning beneath the eaves,
Whirling up with child�s kite,
As if it were mischievous sprite.
Chasing dark clouds over the hill,
Giving my arms a rightful chill,
Laughing as it flies away,
To whip up a storm on Tampa bay.