There’s something about this time of year 
That gives a sense of edge in the air 
Everything is heated yet recoiled 
Like a snake in an outhouse 
That has been waiting to shed its skin 
There’s no sign that it’s been there 
Just the leftover skin 
And smell remains aloof 
Laying low in the corner somewhere 
for just the right time to strike 
Like most snakes 
When strikin’ seems appealing 
You’ll never see it coming 
Swift…. smooth… suave 
Snakes just being snakes.