SNOW IN BUFFALO

How much I hate the snow!
After the dark and dreary autumn,
in the narrow, hole-pocked streets,
near the bowling alley,
how I must despise the snow.

How it gathers on my rooftop,
and buckles up my black top,
how it slushes and piles up
from my throat, I’ll just throw up.

Outside my window pane
it flakes and flakes;
wildly coying,
quite annoying,
where’s the ice dam ‘neath my shingles
for this snow, gall-dang snow!

This frustrated man looks out his door
and bids the snow gods, “NO MORE!”
I condemn the bitter frost,
“melt this crap at any cost”,
my raucous anger turns to vile
I’ll surely drench the pile with bile,
so steer clear of the amber snow!

In my ‘hood the kids all come
with sleds in tow, and some
make commotion on the unplowed street,
and throw their snow-balled sleet,
’til someone loses an eye
(or at least runs home a-crying)
upon this groundswell of snow.

In this city, on every lane,
everywhere it is the same,
six more inches and rising
and no one is surprised,
as forecasters say the thing,
“you suckers best forget the spring!”

***Based on Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s “Rain in Summer”

Walt

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