It’s December, your rough hands crack with cold.
Slip on the city stained ice, tripped by the sinister cold.
You got on the bus, tapped your pass, it’s expired you’re told.
Get off the bus and hear your bones moaning “cold.”
Today the whiskey crazed scarecrow by the red line grew old.
He slumps, rasping “we’re all dying anyway” and smiles against the cold.
Lipstick lady sweats diamonds in her fur coat, feeling so bold.
She hands him a twenty dollar bill, not knowing he’ll still be cold.
It’s December, you’re so sorry but you need to put that one on hold.
It’s life, not a phone call! They scream. But all you think is it’s just too cold.