I Hate the Cold
I Hate the Cold
Cold, cold, I do hate the cold,
My poor bones feel withered and old.
Joints are tired, muscles have seized,
Stiff little fingers, creaking knees.
Warm Winter Sun is my desire,
or point my toes toward an open fire.
Hibernate till dawning of Spring.
Then I’ll be reborn, ready to sing.
Copyright © Kevin Shaw | Year Posted 2018
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