The snow was meek, the snow was mild,
The flakes as soft as a kitten's fur,
But I was a sadistic child--
And my favourite pastimes, in no order, were:
To fling the snow, in little balls,
To colour it yellow with steaming p--
And to bring it inside, to the dim-lit hall;
Plopped on the heater, it died with a hiss.
Nanny was worried (I could get burned!)
So she brought me back in and wiped my hands dry,
The snow, feeling slighted, just never returned,
And no one but me, ever really knew why.