A New Jersey snowstorm: A poem

Well, the Blizzard of 2017 didn’t exactly go according to plan here in the Greater Mercer area, but I’ve been working on this poem for 72 hours and so I don’t care.

With that, the debut of “A New Jersey Snowstorm.” Contact the Nobel people, the Pulitzer crew, etc.

Mother dear shrieked when she looked in the cupboard,

“No bread! No milk! We’ll won’t make it alive!” she blubbered.

So off she did go, from market to shop

Buying this, buying that, for nothing would she stop.

When off in the distance she spied the last one,

the last Pillsbury Cinnamon rolls cannister, so off she did run.

But a woman beat her by barely a second, a nano.

So our dear mother turned into ... well ... Tony Soprano.

She bashed the poor woman upon the head with delight

and grabbed those cinnamon rolls with nary a fight.

“I saw ‘em first,” she said, “don’t you agree?”

“Oh and another thing: Welcome to New Jersey.”

As day turned to night we all gathered round

and listened to the radio for the latest winter sounds.

“A winter weather warning!” said meteorologist Dan Zarrow.

For sure, for sure, there won’t be school t’marrow!

We slept that night with dreams of big snow.

We woke the next morning and were like “whoa.”

“Let’s build a snowman!” little Junior did bellow. “Or even better, let’s turn some snow yellow!”

“Outside, outside, outside” all the children did chant.

“How do you get these freaking boots on?” our mother did rant.

A long while later, all cold and freezing,

the kids came inside, and boy were they sneezing.

But the smell of cinnamon warmed them to their souls,

until they heard mother scream, “Ah crap, I burnt the damn rolls!”

So then everyone did forage for a quick bite to eat.

And then everyone thought a nap would be sweet.

Yet no one, not one, thought even to bother

To lend a helping hand to our poor, sweet father.

Shovel! Shovel! Shovel! my friend

That’s a dad’s job, his job to the end.

And our dad excelled, excelled at this did he.

Though he did pause to one-hit his stash of Maui Wowie.

It was then all decided a movie would be nice.

But a fight over the remote made all think twice.

A board game perhaps, who’s up for Trivial Pursuit?

The silence was deafening, a room gone stone mute.

The party now over, battle lines now drawn.

The children, the parents, couldn’t wait ‘til next dawn.

Video games for the boys, the girls to play tea cup.

Mom and dad, of course, decided to drink up.

Soon it was bedtime, back to the norm.

The kids all tucked in, snuggled, dry, and warm.

But mom and dad went to bed, slightly afraid

they’d wake up to hear school’s opening, delayed.