January, February,
March, and April go.
I don't care about them.
I can do without them.

June, July, and August
Are vacation months I know.
All their joys I've tasted,
But on me they're wasted.

Sweet September, brisk October,
Bleak November only taunt me.
Not December gay with Christmas,
But the month that's left still haunts me.

When the leaves are turning,
And a cheerful fire is burning
In my fireplace,
Why do I wait for May?

When I deck my door with holly,
It's the season to be jolly,
Yet my errant heart still waits for May.

It was May when I first noticed stars spinning in the sky.
It was May the day I knew I'd love you 'til I die.

So, when the last of April's gone,
And tulips march across my lawn,
I'll gladly wait for you, dear, if I may.

Music and Lyrics copyright 1954-1979-1992-1998 by Louise Jackson Doyle

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