WINTER: WHO NEEDS IT?

[November - here it comes ... ]

Why are the months of Winter twice as long as those of Spring?
And why do feckless poets eulogise the beastly thing?
In the bracing days of Winter do I write a lively ballad?
No. I snuggle by my fireside and I brood of broth, not salad.
Is there poets' inspiration in a hail-lashed shrieking storm?
No - there's only desperation for one's person to be warm.
On a grey, wet morn in Winter as I pull my thermal vest on,
Do I pause to patter poems? No. I rush to get the rest on.
My poor fingers they are chilblained and my pipes they are a-freezing,
My joints have all got rising damp, my nose it won't stop sneezing.
Dark the evenings grow and darker, ever earlier getting late,
And the nights go on forever, endless, cold, and chill as hate.
The majesty of Winter inspires in me no ode:
When the dear Lord made the Winter, did he have to make it cold?
So, should you ask do I like Winter, shall I rhapsodise? I won't.
I'll reply in prose, and coldly. Do I like it? No, I don't.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~