@GaryPoole In spring when maple buds turn red,
We turn the clocks an hour ahead.
Which means each springtime that arrives,
We lose an hour out of our lives.
Who cares?
In autumn when birds in flocks fly southward,
Back we turn the clocks.
And so regain that lovely thing,
The missing hour we lost last spring.

(IDK the poet. Had to memorize it in second grade.)