Cold

There is a  pot of gold on the peak
And we would go after in our greed.
We may grab fistfuls of white stuff
And hurl them at us as in pictures.

There is  cold in our bones of flesh,
Greed in our eyes leaving them red.
Our cheeks sagged in apple shame.
(Apples are bereft  of a deep snow).

We may have climbed a monkey hill
Where monkeys  snatch  spectacles.
We have to get them back from man
For thirty rupees of hard persuasion.

Horses have us on them in behinds.
They do not laugh out loud in snow.
We hold on to their backs for our life.
They take us where we  hurl snows.

On a bridge we met  dog at pantleg
But were afraid for bones in the leg
We shoo him away in superior fright
And the old bridge shook in laughter.

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