WHEN ICICLES TRICKLE, IT CAUSES LOW WOE

Where do the melted icicles go?

Into a river beneath the snow,

It runs to the street,

Where it wets your feet,

And ruins your shoes, and costs you doe.

I DIDN'T KNOW. THERE WAS A CRAPIER JOB, UNTIL AI TOOK IT AWAY

I was a limericks writer, paid in rubles, plus it was a hob,

Now Artificial intelligence, has taken away my job,

I pick up bottles in ditches,

Get stained and muddy britches,

Just so I get to eat, because I'm now an unemployed slob.