A POEM FOR ALL SEASONS

When I blow snow,

Away it will go,

I might be paid doe,

To buy a me a hoe,

For the garden, you know,

To keep the weeds low,

To make pickles grow,

So my plants don't feel woe,

Next, tie my shoes with a bow,

And the lawn I must mow,

Then I'll jump in my dingy and row, row, row, row.