Wet Hot Snow

Bunches goad formulations
That become rollers, perhaps spheres
Under close supervision
Gloved brands overcharge
The children, they won't learn
Unless they're in desks, quiet, attensile
At least according to peddle godgics
Snake oil ought to conclude 
Our discussion of the weather
It's the only topic left to us
After the prevailing sins
Blew over the house of the surprising stun
Will the flakes generate compassion?
It's possible
Who are we
To deny hope
And build an ice wall
Against the possibility of guests

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