It doesn't give me agita
Nor migraines, not at all ...
And yet somehow I do suspect
That what I say is lying:
For when I see my snowy car,
I pout and burst out crying.
No one else still lives at home -
It's just me in this hovel,
Which means there isn't anyone
To help me with a shovel.
My landlords have a snow blower
I often hear them use it,
But when they don't clear my drive way
I scream and then abuse shit.
Look, folks, I'm old, I'm tired, I'm way
Too gorgeous, smart, and frail
To have to shovel constantly
Just so I get my mail.
I don't mind a little snow,
The ground, but when we get two feet
And so I shovel on and on
I sweat through everything I wear
And have to take two showers.
I love the snow, and Winter rocks,
But here's the truthful thing:
I'm going to up and kill someone
