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This arctic weather is painful, Doc,
I can't jog around in shorts and a smock,
My wooliest wearables barely warm
My core against the snow-blowing storm.
This frigid blast belongs up north,
In upper Greenland, for what it's worth.
The romantic ideal of icy Decembers
Doesn't sit well with us short-sleeve tremblers;
We're quite content downing egg-noggy glasses
Without Jack Frost nipping at our asses!
In short, I gladly wish winter away
Until its demise come April or May.