The January man, he goes around
in woolen coat and boots of leather.
The February man still shakes the snow
from off his clothes and blows his hand.
The man of March he sees the Spring,
and wonders what the year will bring, and hopes for better weather.
Through April rain the man goes down
to watch the birds come in to share the summer.
The man of May stands very still
to watch the children dance away the day.
In June the man inside the man
is young and wants to lend a hand, and smiles at each new comer.
In July the man in cotton shorts,
he sits and thinks and being idle.
The August men in thousands take
the road to find the sun and watch the sea.
September man is standing near
to saddle up another year, and Autumn is his bridle.
The man of new October takes the rain,
and early frost is on his shoulder.
The poor November man sees fire and mist
and wind and rain and winter ere.
December man looks through the snow
to let eleven brothers know, they're all a little older.
The January man, he comes around again
in coat and boots of leather.
To take another turn and walk
along the icy road he knows so well.
The January man is here,
the start of each and every year, along the road forever.
