I'm cold.
I'm cold, I'm cold, I'm sick and tired of being cold.
(I should probably stop hugging this frozen Margarita.)
It's dark.
It's dark, it's dark, I'm sick and tired of it getting dark
before 5:00 p.m.
(Who am I kidding?
I'm usually asleep by 8:00 p.m.)
It's windy.
It's windy, it's windy, I'm sick and tired of chasing my
trashcans down the street.
(Hence why I started tying them to the fence two years ago.)
There's frost on the car windshield.
There's frost, there's frost, there's a nasty coating of
white crystals all over the car glass.
(Run out, start the car, run back inside. Who needs auto-start?)
It's icy.
It's icy, it's icy, the damn streets are icy.
(That's it -- I'm staying home.)
This is my poem.
It doesn't rhyme.
It has stanzas.
Get over it.
Get over it, get over it, find a way to get yourself over
it.
(Bite me.)
