(Note: This is a twist on Robert Frost’s “Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening“)

Who’s house is this? I suppose I know.​​

I hear he’s in the Bahama’s, though. 

He will not know I’m standing here. 

Watching his warm empty house as I freeze in the snow. 

My little child must think it queer.

To stop without any shelter near.

Her cold pink digits and make 

poke from her clothes and I shed a tear. 

She gives my frozen hands a shake

To ask if there is some mistake

Or is there warmth for us to sleep?

I steel my resolve and her hand do take. 

The mansion’s lovely, warm, and deep. 

But I have frozen feet to keep

And miles to go before I sleep

And miles to go before I sleep.