O Little Town Of Minikin

O little town of Minikin,

Your roads are bare and dry.

The snow’s not deep.

“Son-of-a-(bleep)”,

Snow-blower salesmen cry.

Yet in thy dark clouds cometh

The ever-blasting snow.

A six foot drift

Will be your gift

When winter says, "Hello."

Rhyme For An Orange

Reading a play on a Labor Day Picnic,

I take time to peel an orange.

 And now, having savored two segments of it,

Back to act three and some more Inge.