On the second day I began to write.
Was it "cause of" - "despite"
Matters not,
Something 'bout snow, you've guessed it,
Rhyming with "trap" or "crap". The next thing
Was you, your scent, the latter,
Much like the snow, would make me mutter,
Clutching the collar, as wind's gruff cough
Wanted me frozen and it- washed off.
Now the cold far worse is a thing to lament,
Evening verses sound like a sort of hum and
Poor attempt at wit. So, despite.
It is all snow-white.
Therefore, grab some tea, my bird,
Milk or pie, whatnot,
After all, the sping will stress
You scent more than a fine pale dress.
A verse before spring
© Copyright: Карташов Анатолий, 2018
Свидетельство о публикации №118020706083
Свидетельство о публикации №118020706083
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