weatherman, weathergirl, make me some ice
with narry a wrinkle, oh wouldn’t it be nice?

for four days i cursed out your snow and your rain
and yesterday’s tropics sure was a pain

but this morning the mercury shouts 24
i’ve found all the gear, and shot out the door.

my pulse, it was touching that dangerous cliff
my breathing was shallow, and life was an if

but i got to the lake as the sun topped the trees
i saw not a puddle! got weak in the knees!

i hammered the shoreline, it was thick as could be
but 20 steps latter, what should i see?

the lake served a sandwich of water and ice
a trap for the blissful, which didn’t seem nice

in between you could skate for a week without fail
but then in an instant your head and your tail

would quickly change places, and just quick as that
a old bone or two probably break with a snap

so i sadly turned round one hundred and eighty degrees
i thought now of breakfast, i thought of my knees

and swore that tomorrow, there’s be nothing to do
but come to a lake, with a buddy or two

and life will be sweet, and our season be saved
and we’ll follow our passion to the edge of our grave