We miss next October,
We miss next November,
We miss next December,
He's failing again and again.
His vain, huge vanilla made up by,
We all remember how he's mistaken.
How sad to say like.
Every single December, he regrets
Every single November, he regrets
Every single October, he regrets
Every single September, he regrets,
his lost of August's fame
Like an insane man.
Who's name is kind of a David.
Who's apprised by our linguists.
Shan't we sing a song like those way?
For the Dear Mr. Bears.
Who's got hours of ours.
Badly to sing I am, am I?
This text is written by Pipopa at 2020yy, R2yy.