In the Green Mountain State,
September is pretender,
October holds the glitter and the gold;
flaunting colors oh so bold!
In the hills, the mists hang low,
enveloping the cows and farms,
the moon is fat, just like a pumpkin,
special, with its romantic charms.
The magic of the maples turning,
the crunch of leaves from under feet;
the chill of fall nipping at your nostrils,
as you meander down a curving street.
In the graveyard, Ethan Allen sleeps,
along with poet, Robert Frost;
the Catamount Tavern lies close by,
where many a rum-tinged drink was tossed.
In French, Vermont means Green Mountain,
and in September, it is grand;
the days wherein I spent my youth,
I'm proud I'm from this rocky land.
September, is the month when I was born,
and New England's the land that holds my heart;
the autumn of my years is now upon me,
I only hope that I have done my part.