Hi.
You don't know me.
I'm merely the second snowflake of winter.
Not like the first snowflake,
That bloody glory hog,
Always getting those songs and odes written about him,
Oh, no.
Neither the first nor the last, that's me,
Just an ordinary snowflake,
A schmuck, a schmoflake,
Just part of a long series of snowflakes.
Humble old me.
Undistinguished.
If you're looking for the sort of snowflake that is the herald of winter, the symbol of beauty,
Piss off.
And I'm not the sort of snowflake that makes children look up and poets gasp
With enchantment at the wonder of winter either.
Oh, no.
I'm not one of those fuckers.
I'm more the sort of snowflake that falls on your finger and causes frostbite,
Or falls on your nose and is the cause of a slight case of pneumonia,
Or falls on your car window and adds to the frost and fog so that you can't see where you're going on the roads, and sends your car screeching to a sudden...
Hey, don't mention it.
It's part of my job.
Unique and individual snowflake, my arse.
I am not 'precious' or 'wonderful',
Or a 'delicate beauty'.
Oh, no: that's the sort of crap that gets said about the first snowflake -
That bloody whoopsie.
Once the first snowflake comes down, let's face it,
You people lose interest.
You wouldn't notice me if I caused the death of your dog, your cat, your goldfish, and your mother, all at once.
(Well, maybe not that last one).
Though that probably wouldn't happen anyway -
I'd probably land on the ground and have you shove a hoof in my face,
Or squash me beneath your greasy buttocks,
You arsehole.
No, the second snowflake,
And everyone that comes after,
Never got noticed anyway.
Bastards.
Don't mention it.
Perhaps, one day,
Some wild-haired cretin,
Wearing a caftan, maybe,
Having doubtless ingested too much of one drug or another,
And carrying a book of Marx,
Will come along and pen a 'Song of the Second Snowflake of Winter',
Full of dark and despair,
And gloomy reflections on the state of the working classes,
And ennui, and terror of death,
And a generally miserable outlook.
And all in free verse (the fucker).
It will be the first song ever written
About the second snowflake of winter -
If I'm lucky.
7 comments:
This is the brain rolling in the aisles of its pan with laughter. Nifty, to say the least! I like 'schmoflake' very much indeed. Profane and profound in one neat package!
Err, my. My brain. Mine.
The Brain would simply conquer the world. Or, at least, mount a valiant rear-guard action.
All hail our new Brain overlord!
That is one cranky snowflake.
I can't believe that's actually a sentence.
God knows where it learnt all that language from.
Good on you, timt. It is well known that the second snowflake gets lost between the first and the third snowflake of winter and often suffers neglect over that.
Glad you're trying to rectify the matter.
Some people may say I'm just a flake, but I have always maintained that we have equal rights for all snowflakes!
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