I have a snow man

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.

 

Following his blueprint to a T

he works just like he ought.

Alas I am the other kind

who won’t work right for naught.