Beware the morn of March!
When the wind blows high
And the weeping willows sway.
For that is when
The fizzy whizzys come out
They tangle the clotheslines
And snap all the clothing pins.
They let the dog outside
And let all the chickens in.
They gather soot from the chimneys
And throw it on the floor.
They track mud on the staircase.
And tap nails into the door.
They turn the pillows inside out
And paint all the feathers red.
They make every tv set blare
“Poor Jud Is Dead”.
There is nothing you can do to stop them.
Nor any way to make them behave.
You can only wait out their mischief
And wait for them to return to their graves.
For fizzy whizzys are spirits, you see.
Spirits of mischief and glee.
They never learned the proper way to behave.
That’s why they harass decent people
Like you and me.