The love song of Russel Stover.

February is the cruellest month, breeding

Roses for dead relationships, confusing

Obligation for the real thing.

Winter kept us coupled, disguising complacency in neglectful rhythm, faking

A little affection with rote sex.

March surprised us, coming over the St. Patrick’s Day display with a shower of green beer; we stopped in the middle of the parade

And went on to the pub crawl, and drank whiskey and talked nonsense.

Erin go bragh! Pogue mahon!

And when we were lovers, staying in the firehouse,

My best friend, she took me out to lunch

And I was wary. She said Meg,

Meg, get out now. And out we went.

At the beach, there you feel alone.

I wrote all night, and swam in the summer.