The name of my last post sounded vaguely familiar. Isn't there a poem that goes something like this:
Whose plows these are I think I know
Their owners like to wake me so
Can't they wait till the sun comes up
And let us gently sleep with snow.
My little boys must think it queer
To hear their mummy grumbling near
And turning on the coffee pot
When all the world is sleeping dear.
I creep downstairs and check the news
And quickly do the closures peruse
I shortly forget the annoying plows
And gently sip and start to muse.
The snow is lovely, bright as day
And everyone has gotten their way
And hours to go in which to play
And hours to go in which to play.
No comments:
Post a Comment