canine pawprints in soggy snow.
it's that time, my ninjas...
werewolfen berserker fury,
and lupine supine backbent snowangels, too.
snow,wet snow, wetter icy snow, and warmer temperatures
make for a fabulous day of backbreaking shovel magic.
how many pounds of slush can one man move?
a lot, neighbors.
a real lot.
the glistening glare,
the refractory prism of ice and water,
the tippity-tappy drip, drip, dripping...
is it the snow magic?
i assure you,
that is not the case.
slipping, and scraping, and heaping hard styles
all up on the daylight hours is fine and dandy,
but as the sun sets,
the hairy horror of hybrid man-beastly, fenris-flavored,
howling-mad garrulous loupe-garou grotesquerie.
the abominable snowtimes are here.
that's a real thing.
real life responsibility stole my days off, duders.
i've got spaghetti spindles for arms,
and overcooked noodles for legs.
the day is spent,
and between the sparkly ice melter salts,
and a tasty soy hot chocolate,
even my movie checks are spent.
thank heavens for the skin-shedding,
longtoothed pack of full moon monstrosities, y'all.
mature adult responsibility just can't compete
with tidal waves of werewolf warrior poetry.
those high tides are pulling blood simple pulse-pounding
hard-style pounding out of my pores.
that's transformative, 'uckas, on the unos.
the day is done,
but the night has just begun.
if you listen a little bit harder,
you can probably hear the baying, b!tchbags;
never quiet, never soft.....