ENCOUNTERS OF THE THIRD KIND

I have a little snowman

Who isn’t made of snow.

I met a man who knew him

Before we two met, and so

I wasn’t surprised to find

He was the other kind.

 

When ‘ere the sun is out

His little arms they wave

And I guess this little habit

Will follow him to the grave.

 

Sometimes I want to stop him,

Offer him some tea,

See his black eyes twinkle

Looking back at me.

 

He follows his blueprint to a T

And just does what he aught

Alas I am  the other kind

who can’t do right for naught.