Imagine for a moment that
The snow has filled the streets
It’s falling still, you go to bed
It’s coming down in sheets
And in the morn you wake to see
The windows filled with white
There’s not a peak of fresh air there
And you are sealed in tight
You call your family to behold
The walls that hold you in
But when you call, your son replies
That you’ve been taken in
For in the night some ruffians
The mischief making boys
Had piled high a mound of snow
Without making a noise
The backdoor is quite passable
The garden gate is free
The ways are open to yourself
Unless in front you be
If you thought this was funny, well
To get more in your head
Consider George MacDonald for
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