It's frigid out, a thing of scorn,
I sigh in pique as I look at the storm.
Ah, how vexing, but it gives an excuse,
Besides, I'm craving a nice cup of brew.
I get up and make my way to the nearest house,
The only house in miles,
The walk is long and irritating,
Satan does simply despise me.
I pile my lumber as I knock down the door,
And ignore the furious stares,
Ah, what a life to be a woodman,
And lie in the carpet under someone else's stairs .
