runs gainly down our lane…
though stains the drain.
The snow, we know,
must blow: drifts drift and grow.
Where're we to go?
This wind, my “frind,”
shall “sind me ‘roun’ de bind.” My ears? They’re pinn’d.
This ice? Not nice.
(Posh Spice has stumbl’d...twice!
What’s your advice?)
This sleet’s “fer sheet.”
My seat has lost all heat…can’t feel my feet.
This mud? God’s blood!
We trudge through muck and crud:
a freakin’ flood!
The fog’s turn’d smog.
All soggy’s grown each tog. We’re not agog.
This hail won’t fail
our mailman to derail.
Just one more nail…
This dust be cuss’d!
Nonpluss’d, we’re truss’d in crust. Must we adjust?
The warming’s uncharming,
disarming. More: alarming!
Harms the farming.
Tsunami? Miami’s
still balmy, though less palmy. Call my Mommie!
Scirocco? Morocco and Bang-
kok go on the block. (So,
where’s Iraq go?)
The fires require
attire heat-treated prior – or you’ll perspire.
This smoke’s no joke:
Al Roker’s had a stroke.
Ya toke, ya croak!
Armageddon?
We’ve made our beddin’…
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