An ode to Snowman Burning Day:


There’s a man standing in my garden

with Brussels sprouts for eyes,

a carrot forms his knobbly nose,

his smile is warm and wise.


A friend of Father Christmas

(whose reindeer love him so),

yet still he stands there, strong and still,

without the urge to go.

Three small pebbles proudly glisten

from his frosty chest,

despite a lack of overcoat,

cardigan or vest.


My favourite scarf’s around his neck,

a frying pan atop his head,

but not long now before they’re mine,

for soon my cold friend will be dead.


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