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~THE MOTHER OR FATHER OF ALL SNOWSTORMS~
Cold Yesterday.
The Mother or Father of all Storms
Raged and stormed thru the Ozarks where I was born,
So I felt I had to respond in kind, with no rhetorical harm
To Mother Nature's wily-crazy weather ways and cold,cold charm,
Down here in the Ozark's on ~Shiolh~Gary Clarkson's~ Hillside Farm.
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The Mother or Father
Of All Snow Storms
Raged Thru The Ozarks
Where I Was Born.
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The Mother of All Storms blew into town on March, second day
Or was it called the Father of all storms that came from the Northern way
One way or the 'tuther this storm seems like a real mad Mother
Spankin her kids, snow packin' the land, makin' everybody run for cover.
Looks like we'll get six inches or more of that 'purty' white old stuff
Clogging our roads, raging and blowing in over the White River Bluffs.
I wish we'd never get a blizzard like snow in these pretty Ozarks,
Something like this would make me slick as a tick and happy as a lark.
The Ozarks Plateau will soon look 'purty' white and clean,
Nineteen days from spring, will I ever again see some grass of green?
Who does this storm think it is anyway, man woman or child,
The gutsy-bodacious nerve of whoever it is sure drives a country boy wild.
March 2, 2002 came into this one-horse-town like a mean old lion
Winds blow with snow piled high, a sure 'nuff' winter's sign
So that means old man winter will go out like a lamb
But farm chores have gotta' go on and I'm doing it all alone,
Kittens need feedin' and my dogs need a meaty fresh bone.
Hay for the mules and horses, and straw for the hogs.
My wood fire burns low, now I gotta go cut some logs.
Wind chill factor seems below forty degrees
The Mother or Father of all storms really ain't no tease
Cause Mother Nature's a quirky lady, she's kinda' hard to please.
Snow driftin' high sure cleansed the air and adorned this land
But them slick old hillsides makes it tough for a one-eyed man to stand.
The Mother or the Father of all mean winter storms
Don't happen too often in this little town where I was born.
I got fences to check, wood to chop, and hogs to slop.
Does this cold, cold mean old snow ever know when to stop?
My old 9N Ford Tractor cranks over and finally comes to life,
That old blue norther wind cuts thru me sharp like a knife.
Cuts through overalls and coveralls, and all. The wind blows snow
Across, down, and around that mile of crooked road where I've gotta' go.
A mile of slick road I've gotta get out and snow plow.
I think about Florida's Sun, and when Beauty Spring finally makes her bow,
I think to myself, this ain't the Mother or Father of storm's blowin wild.
This must be their mean and nasty little old Red-Headed Stepchild!
� ~Shiloh~Gary L Clarkson ([email protected])
~Horse & Buggy Mountain~
~Ozark Mountain Country~
~Branson,Missouri~
~USA~
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