You've heard of black ice.
It's not very nice.
It occurs only once in a while.
But what I dread more,
Dumped right at my door,
Is Black Snow in a whacking great pile.
With a rumble and roar,
About half-past four,
It arrives while I'm still in my bed.
I trudge from my hovel,
Armed with a shovel;
The Black Snow is as high as my head.
I huff and I puff
And shovel the stuff,
'Til I gasp: "Please God, have some pity!"
But I know that tomorrow,
Much to my sorrow,
Black Snow will arrive in King City.
Now you want to know,
Why call it Black Snow,
When everyone knows that snow's white?
"Send out the snowplows!"
Mayor Black, she avows,
"And fill in each driveway by dawn's light."
...with apologies to Her Worship, Marg Black