The sun sits high on his sky-blue throne
And fixes the snow with a baleful eye,
To pass his judgment in solemn tone:
“Too bad. It’s March. You will have to fry.”
But the snow is old in the ways of crime,
And he shows his teeth in a wicked smile.
December has always returned in time
To set up his empire in elegant style.
by Ray Romine Saturday, January 27, 1951
