I’ve spent the better part of the past six hours composing a poem to my friends and relatives stranded in distant places where winter means temperatures so cold they ought to be called “Simon Cowell” (study up on pop-culture if you don’t know who that is), landscapes so barren they ought to be called “Sarah” (review your Genesis trivia if you don’t get that one), and man-sized drifts of the icky white stuff so dismal and depressing they ought to be called…but I shan’t write the word here for fear of being censored by xanga!
I slaved over the poem with creative zeal, trying with every fiber of linguistic skill to utter my thoughts as concisely and honestly as I could, and the result of much verbal sweating and right-brain cogitating is the following. I trust you’ll appreciate it for its utter literary genius:
So sorry your nose, red and chapped, bore the cost
So happy to be many miles from thee
Go ahead and admit it–you wish you were me!
Yup. I’m Shakespeare, Dickinson and Donne all rolled into one (note the unintentional internal rhyme in that sentence), and I believe my poetry class has much to learn for the verse above–ie. don’t ever submit anything that tacky to me or you’re guaranteed a failing grade! I took a walk down the street and into the hills this afternoon and thought I should torture my snowbound, frostbitten friends with a small taste of the horrendousness of a German winter. Eat your hearts out, Canadians, Coloradans, New-Hamphirans and other victims of Siberian climes!