November leaves, November leaves,
rotten gold on golden sleeves,
roses past the time of prose
of thyme and rhyme that naught compose-
November leaves, November leaves
An empty seat stolen by thieves
Whom took away what way there was
Of pause, black dresses and of gauze-
November leaves, November leaves
The day before that none believes.
For I still cant, take there it grieves
November leaves, November leaves.
Stupid jack.
Just the title I would have put on top, centered (I find it distract interest and harmony from the subject). Great minimalist composition