Snow is mean to me.
It plays a dirty trick,
All white and fluffy and clean,
Christmas-card like.
Then it gets in the paths
And in the driveway,
Makes Bob huff and puff
And makes his shoulder hurt.
It looks like whipped topping.
But no shortcake underneath,
Just ice lurking
With the snow aiding and abetting,
Fluffing into the air with a laughing WHEE
When I slip and fall.
It poses as poetic,
But no one-horse open sleigh coming,
Just my granddaughter on the road,
Inexperienced, thinking it's pretty.
The snow expects me to believe
That banking up the hen house is enough,
That beauty will pacify,
But I'm not fooled.
Snow is mean to me.