Contributed by Nan Potts
When noses thaw and temps ain’t raw,
North winds don’t gnaw with usual chaw,
¬Mud-mixed-straw chafe as a raven’s caw;
You’re flirting with thirty-two.
When rain pounds down ‘til yer pert near drown,
The land is brown, minus winter’s white gown,
And folks in town wear a soggy frown;
You’re flirting with thirty-two.
You think winter’s done, it’s on the run,
The morning sun shines bright one,
Yet frost has won like a hording Hun;
You’re flirting with thirty-two.
Wait! The snow is back! I must tell Zack!
I know he’ll yak but I’ll make my track
Back to my shack, no time to pack;
“Cause, I’m flirting with thirty-two!
