No, I don’t know where your snow pants are.
Here are your snow boots, but they might not fit.
This same moment happens every year.
I always swear to myself, “next year I’ll remember.”
The spring equivalent is baseball glove and cleats.
No, I don’t know where your snow pants are.
Did you look in your closet? They should be there,
if you had an organized mother, that is. Yours isn’t.
This same moment happens every year.
Your snow boots are tight? Your feet got bigger?
Well, you’ll only have to hobble a little bit.
No, I don’t know where your snow pants are.
The coat rack? The front hall? The back porch?
The oven? Space station? Tardis? I quit.
This same moment happens every year.
It’s faster just to buy new ones, I swear.
I’m thinking of a word that rhymes with spit.
No, I don’t know where your snow pants are.
This same moment happens every year.
The alarmingly tight snow boots.
marniere 