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.
NANMYKEL.COM 