Snow, snow, go away, come again no other day. I wish I may, I wish I might, walk to class with you nowhere in sight.
Just last week, I slipped on you and hurt my knee. Why do you have to be so mean to me?
I hate you and so do my friends, and I wouldn’t shed a tear if I never saw you again.
You’ve depressed me every year with malicious persistence. As someone who’s lived in Rochester and Erie all his life, you’ve been the bane of my existence.
In the past, as a foolish, inexperienced child, I thought that maybe you could bring me glee.
Tubing down the hill in the backyard was fun, and I had a few classmates who liked to ski.
That was before I had to shovel the driveway the year the snow blower broke. It was around that time, I remember, that I started to get woke.
Sure, some of my friends were still under your spell, but I realized that you are, in fact, straight from hell.
Relatives from the South still inquire, “But isn’t it pretty?” I tell them, “Far from it — come see it in the city!”
Those paintings of pristine, snowcapped mountains and cabins are all a lie. Anyone from an area you frequent knows; you ain’t got no alibi. You UGLY!
Within hours of your arrival, you’re a black, blue, disgusting mess of salt and mud. And when an unseasonably warm day comes along, you surprise everyone with a flash flood.
The only solace I find is in my dreams, where it’s not you but the ocean that gleams.
White sand at my feet, a cold beer in my hand. In the background plays a Jimmy Buffet tribute band.
I forget all about your unrelenting, annoying, torturous ways. “On the beach,” I announce, “is where I plan to spend the rest of my days.”
But all too soon it’s back to reality, in which I’m awakened by an alarm and soon reminded of your brutality.
It’s nearly April, and I’m really getting tired of it. The fact that you sit outside as spring-training baseball plays on TV makes me want to throw a fit.
And if you’re still not convinced by this diatribe I’ve devised, let me go into detail about how much you’re truly despised.
I do not like you when driving my car. I do not like you when walking to the bar.
I do not like you in the shape of an angel or a ball. I do not like you at all.
As we approach 200 inches, weathermen will proclaim, “What a feat.” The suffering you’ve caused will sit gloriously atop the local meteorological spreadsheet.
But the numbers will not put into words the frustration and gloom you’ve brought upon this city, and because of that, it’s on behalf of its residents that I have written you this ditty:
“Roses are red, violets are blue. I wish like the sun I could melt every inch of you.”
Because you suck.

KYLE JOSEPH
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