Is it still funny?
This Uncommitted Winter
O
Nothing.
Nothing to scrape
Nothing to melt
Nothing to warm
Nothing to plow
Annual frosted obstacles
Deliver so well
Our frustration
Agitation in droves
With spring here early
The work we loathe so much
Has disappeared like a ghost we'd learned to live with
O uncommitted winter we miss our frozen burden that falls from the sky
Only thing we hate more than our arctic adversary is the nothing in his place
And with nothing to scrape
Nothing to melt
Nothing to warm
Nothing to plow
We are only left with the complaint
That we sure miss our complaints
Hey, this poem is accidentally shaped kinda like a fighter jet!
Which has nothing to do with winter
But is cool nonetheless
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