December

I'm still stuck in December, writing Twelve instead of two.

Eight months or ten aren't different When it's ten or eight with you.

Snow or no snow? Warmth or cold?

Clocks can be turned back I'm sure

If I'm rich, I'm rich in love I don't care if I'm poor.

I'm not much just to look at, Or to talk to or to hold.

But if the deal involves your love Then easily I'm sold.