[Portage, March 1,
The gods say Marches coming in like lambs
Exit like lions and who is to say
The powers know not what they tell us of
Arrive like eagles, wing away like doves.
Today the air rides soft like fluff of lamb
If you will, beats hell of icy white stuff.
My own view it can away with bleating
Or bleed us like prides of hungry lions,
As long as the white crap removes itself
To parts unknown staying another year,
To snow be gone I raise my drinking glass,
Chug adult beverages, cheer hear-hear.