When it’s Christmas in Wyoming,
And the gentle breezes blow,
About seventy miles an hour
And its fifty-two below,
You can tell you’re in Wyoming
‘Cause the snow’s up to your butt.
You take a breath of Christmas air
And your nostrils both freeze shut.
The weather here is wonderful,
So I guess I’ll hang around,
I could never leave Wyoming—
My feet are frozen to the ground!
—Unknown
My dad sent this to me today, and I thought you all might enjoy it. It’s not as bad as the poem makes it out to be, but it’s close.
No comments:
Post a Comment