Whose? Or, Nonsense for a Snowy Evening

Here's Robert Frost ‘neath snowy trees:
“Whose woods these are I think I know…”
Beers -- Belgian ales -- go well with cheese:
“Whose worts…? These are (I think) Hainault’s.”
Aleppo’s ethnic music stores:
“Whose ouds these are I’d plink, not blow.”
Through Bible thumpers' closet doors:
“Whose goods art these…? Thy pink I'd throw.”

Some metal crosses grace our town:
“Whose roods are these…? They’re zinc, yet glow.”
From brothers beige and black and brown:
“Whose ‘hoods be deese…? Dey stink, ma bro!”
From telling tales, Milne rarely rests:
“Roo’s moods bizarre my shrink I’ll show.”
Some Brits engage in kitchen tests:
“Whose pudds, these…? Dare I lick the bowl…?”

Gone’s Sigmund’s objectivity:
“Whose moods, these…? Arch! Ein kinky, no...?”
French days wax warm. Who’s thirsty…? Me”
“Whose food bar, this…? I’d drink iced eau.
This scribe for colored pencils fights:
“Whose words are these…? Their ink’s de trop.”
Ms. Martha from Mount Vernon writes:
“Whose wooden teeth…? A. Lincoln’s…? No!”

Though blue’s not bad, I’m not a fan:
“Whose woads are these…? (Like [wink] nice, though.)”
Zamboni eyes a backup plan:
"Would kudzu freeze ice rinks…? Why, no.” 
Some apiarists can be mean: 
"How'd you harm bees...? I'd pink eye sow."
Was Tiger in the pro shop seen...?
"Those Woods par threes I think I'd blow."