Dreading stepping out of my door before sunrise
like a death row inmate dreads the dawning of his demise

The forecast I’m despising
because the temperature’s not rising

 

praying Mutha Nate-cha calls in a last minute pardon
in time to stop the inclement warden

 

But the chances are looking slim
and the lights are bound to dim

 

I’ll admit I am a big baby when it comes to cold
and dammit it’s getting worse as I get old

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