By Bill Westcott

We're not so crabby after all
We only come around in fall
We grace your gardens for a while
Then congregate in
Gaily coloured sour piles

To our skeptics in the bunch
We hope they try us for a lunch
Our sour fibre when bitten in
Will make you squirm, shiver
And even cringe

We're not so crabby after all
We only come around in fall
When winter's mantle covers ground
You'll wish and wish that
We could still be found