The road is cold and lonely,
The street is chill and bare,
And the temperature is cold
On the abandoned thoroughfare.
The avenue’s deserted
And the frost clings to my hair
As I concisely summarize
That ice is all that’s present there.
The lane’s devoid of people
And our breath hangs in the air.
The thermometer’s relative lowness
Means to be outside few apparently dare.
The cul-de-sac is frigid
And devoid of folk, I swear.
It’s frosted and filled with people
In such quantity as those whom about this poem still do care.
The Daily Travesty 