Autumn Sonnet

When autumn makes its chilly way around,
The pumpkins on the vine will ripened be.
The leaves will all be tumbled to the ground
And gutters overflowing with debris.
My wind-blown lawn with trees' dead issue fills,
So rake with Sony Walkman strapped will I,
And toil in growing darkness 'til it kills,
The spouse (non-llama) comforts with a sigh.
My satisfaction blooms when labor's done
And at long last the withered leaves are piled.
That's when the kids come out and all dive in
And there it goes, three hours of work defiled.
But not to worry, life is but in jest,
I'll have myself a cold Oktoberfest.