The Snowman Machine

I built a machine to make our snowman. It would be
Perfectly rounded,
Carrot straight,
Symmetrical face,
Without blemish,
Avoiding  the hassle of frostbite for my children.

But the figure was colder than usual,
My daughter cried on seeing it.
The uneasy neighbourhood kids
Pelted it with hand-made snowballs
That merely broke against its side.

It was well-built and wouldn’t melt.
Watching us like a propaganda poster,
Leaving us afraid to open the curtains
Until it slunk away in April
To reveal, lurking behind,
Our efficient black machine.


If you like it, let me know. If you think it’s crap, let me know why. I’m more likely to listen to the latter.


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