Equinoctial Delights!

The backyard crickets say that spring is here;  
Here before the wild ides of March air,  
And before Saint Patrick's vernal beer  
Gets over quaffed on an alehouse dare.  
 
The crickets will bid the winter adieu  
As I will miss the fresh oceanic cold,  
Soon replaced by sunbeams and barbecue  
And racy summer poetry foretold  
Telling of long evenings in August sheets  
With a juicy mound of forbidden fruit  
Much sweeter than all the overcooked meats  
That the charcoal grill would likely pollute.  
 
Oh! Of all the things that need to stay fresh  
It's Irish sausage in the summer flesh!