Like, seriously though.

It’s November in New York,

and cold.

It makes me reflective

look where I’ve looked before,

a mental autumn harvest

what a cool metaphor.

I watch the leaves go

no trace and with peace,

why must I bundle up

in this ugly ass fleece?

No more booty shorts

I’m bound by fuzz

this is so irritating

where are my huzz?

They call it sweater weather,

as if fall is strictly for lovers

who want to be cuffed

and reject all others.

But these people are freaks.

This weather makes me modest,

but only physically. 

In my heart it’s always two-man season,

so I download Tinder happily.

Drawings via Bwog Staff