Good April Hunting

The calendar says it’s mid-April,

So spring should be just ahead.

I’m trying to change the season,

springtime thoughts are in my head.

Draft stoppers are out of the windows,

flannel sheets are off of the bed,

and I stored the shovel and snow scoop

in my nearly empty woodshed.

Frost heaves are quickly sprouting,

and daylight hours are long.

Out on the steps of the deck,

the snowdrift is almost gone.

So why did it snow today,

as well as yesterday,

and the day before that and t’other,

if spring is on the way?

The bottom fell out of my driveway,

there’s a moat around my abode,

and I have to use the four-wheel-drive

if I want to get to the road.

Studded tires are still on the truck,

clicking on pavement dry and gray.

It's the law they have to be off

by the very first day of May.

Fifty dollars per tire

is the fine I’ll have to pay,

but I still need those tires

to get out of my own driveway.

Maybe I’ll write to Al Gore,

ask him to help with my fine,

‘cause I’m sure it’s his global warming

that’s making me snivel and whine.

What is it about spring that brings out the doggerel in me? Could it be that spring is Iambic pentameter? Not that I'm saying I wrote that in Iambic pentameter, you know. I mean, doggerel doesn't really count.


Anyway, here it is en toto, without photographic or commercial interruption:

Good April Hunting

The calendar says it’s mid-April,

So spring should be just ahead.

I’m trying to change the season,

springtime thoughts are in my head.

Draft stoppers are out of the windows,

flannel sheets are off of the bed,

and I stored the shovel and snow scoop

in my nearly empty woodshed.

Frost heaves are quickly growing,

and daylight hours are long.

Out on the steps of the deck,

the snowdrift is almost gone.

So why did it snow today,

as well as yesterday,

and the day before that and t’other,

if spring is on the way?

The bottom fell out of my driveway,

there’s a moat around my abode.

And I have to use the four-wheel-drive

if I want to get to the road.

Studded tires are still on the truck,

clicking on pavement dry and gray.

It's the law they have to be off

by the very first day of May.

Fifty dollars per tire

is the fine I’ll have to pay,

but I still need those tires

to get out of my own driveway.

Maybe I’ll write to Al Gore,

ask him to help with my fine,

‘cause I’m sure it’s his global warming

that’s making me snivel and whine.