There is a giant woman in the skies;
she laughs whenever I make a mistake –
and when she laughs, from her hair dandruff flies;
we dislike this idea, so for our sake
we now learn how to name it snow instead;
when I’m inside, the flakes seem a delight;
but when I’m outside, the wintery stead
feels wrong, and I feel my shame shining bright;
flurries flutter, land gently on my mane;
and I feel disgusting as I shake my
head – for while it’s nice outside the glass pane,
get too close, and all charm will fall and slip by;
    so I wait, for spring shall of snow us cure,
    snow melt, for snow wash away my failure.