| When I was a young man courting the girls
|
| I played me a waiting game
|
| If a maid refused me with tossing curls
|
| I’d let the old Earth make a couple of whirls
|
| While I plied her with tears in lieu of pearls
|
| And as time came around she came my way
|
| As time came around, she came
|
| Oh, it’s a long long while from May to December
|
| But the days grow short when you reach September
|
| When the autumn weather turns the leaves to flame
|
| And you ain’t got time for waiting game
|
| When days dwindle down to a precious few
|
| September November
|
| And these few golden days I’d share with you
|
| Those golden days I share with you
|
| When you meet with the young girls early in the Spring
|
| You court them in song and rhyme
|
| They answer with words and a clover ring
|
| But if you could examine the goods they bring
|
| They have little to offer but the songs they sing
|
| And the plentiful waste of time of day
|
| A plentiful waste of time
|
| Oh, it’s a long, long while from May to December
|
| But the days grow short when you reach September
|
| When the autumn weather turns the leaves to flame
|
| One hasn’t got time for the waiting game
|
| Oh, the days dwindle down to a precious few
|
| September, November
|
| And these few precious days I’ll spend with you
|
| These precious days I’ll spend with you |