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Thursday, March 6, 2014

Winter Conspiracy Theory

Thursday afternoon boredom led me to attempt something a little unusual. I got the idea of winter poetry from NEO-NEOCON. She writes:
Just to make sure I receive full appreciation for the arduous work involved in writing [the poem], I refer you to this. It explains terza rima, the convoluted rhyme scheme involved:
Terza rima is a three-line stanza using chain rhyme in the pattern a-b-a, b-c-b, c-d-c, d-e-d. There is no limit to the number of lines, but poems or sections of poems written in terza rima end with either a single line or couplet repeating the rhyme of the middle line of the final tercet…There is no set rhythm for terza rima, but in English, iambic pentameters are generally preferred.
And her poem:

ACQUAINTED WITH THE WHITE

I have been one acquainted with the white.
I have walked out in snow–and back in snow.
I have watched drifts climb to impressive height.

I have felt blizzard winds that rage and blow.
I have shuffled my muklukked, booted feet
And sniffled wanly, crying, “Woe, oh woe!”

I’ve slipped on ice and skidded down the street
And heard those dying voices with my fall*
Then gone inside to fix myself a treat.

“Snow is design of whiteness to appall,”**
My favorite poet would say, with keen insight.
(Just note his name; he’s called “Frost,” after all.)

I’ve heard friends call me wrong, and far, far Right.
I have been one acquainted with the white.
NEO, I liked it. It's fun and quirky and perfectly captures your aggravation at this never-ending winter. For my own effort, I decided to tell a story. For all I know it could be a true story. You see, I know that liberals are not just misguided but actively engaging in darkness and evil. So I put my mind to the question of why on Earth they would want this planet to actually be colder. I came up with something, and I think you'll find it a plot both sinister, and darkly compelling.

Winter Conspiracy Theory

These evil trolls have seen the light.
They hate the rays that burn their skin
A pact is made; it is their right.

Dark science is sought for darker sin.
Freedom for slaves must be revoked
They pervert our knowledge to seek their win.

This land of snow was frosty cloaked.
For five-hundred generations,
Darwin's law was surely invoked.

Ice men solved winter's equation.
They changed to survive the cold.
Western man's frame was no aberration.

Thick of body, stout and bold,
wrapped up in furs driving their sleds,
"Winter is coming," is what they were told

It is ice that they hope brings the dead.
These trolls wish the return of an age,
when the weak were confined to their beds.

The long legged blacks they will rage,
as frost saps their will to prevail.
Warmists have already set the stage.

None alive know what this will entail.
As forests die and green leaves turn brown.
Those "blacks" that they hate are sure to fail.

He wants winter to drive them all down.
Killing the world in his hateful need.
He despises these freed slaves in his town.

His nefarious plans they just may succeed.
And falling sky has Chicken Little in a sorry state.
Killing two birds with one stone is what they agreed.

Genocide for that race all trolls hate.
First keep them in ignorant squalor,
then cause an ice age to seal their fate.

Ignorantly hobbled by the traitors next door.
Learning disdained their minds bound in rage.
"keeping it real," means they'll always be poor.

Thinking outside the box—or the cage,
is so much harder in a beery daze.
Carbon taxes are setting the stage.

Blinded by some science liar's craze
these hustlers just want to take us.
"Global Warming" is a liar's phrase.

Lefties they've raised an awful ruckus.
The grand marshal of this fool's parade,
Al Gore must really want to ... us.

But now that their phony hand is played,
and now that the people know their game,
The trolls' evil hopes will soon fade.

These nightmares they will not soon claim,
and their hopes of genocide will soon dwindle.
Evil racist liberals, they're all the same.

Getting the word out that we can't be swindled.
Don't listen to the warmists' sleepy little tune.
Holy Water on the fuse so their plot can't be kindled.

If you laugh at my story and think I'm a loon,
If you joke and give side-eyes while passing me by,
The fate you were warned of could happen soon.

When your tears are frozen, you won't be able to cry.
So get rid of the warmists if you don't want to die!

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