If you like . . .
You like to give your mother gray hair
You like skiing rocks right under the chair
You like sharp icicles for popsicle and sword
You couldn’t care less about baby sharks in the fjord
You like sleeping in caves and favorite snow holes
You never mind losing one or two poles
You like being without parents on the lift
Your ski pants have yet another new rift
You like jumping off really large rocks
You never mind holes in your wool socks
You like going down with fire and flames
You like to prank and you like to play games
You like being mean to your one and only brother
You like being nice to just about anyone other
You don’t get cold feet while out on the rocks
You like to do bumps and don’t mind the hard knocks
You know those special places you really like to be
Where you might accidentally hug or kiss a tree?
You don’t get what’s really the worst
Of all the things that I’ve dreaded or cursed
It’s way worse than leaving fresh snow
I don’t think you get it. How could you possibly ever know?
It’s soon time to pack up and go home
So this is the very last part of the poem
You might still be laughing at me or maybe just smirking
Because it’s not you that has to go back to working!