Thursday, November 4, 2010

An ode to my Igloo Playmate cooler

My playmate’s walls doth shield things from the sun,
Kansas is far more flat, than her lid flat,
If snow be white, why then her inside’s dun:
Her lid peaked high, is nowhere that I’ve sat:
But ice therein melts not on sunny days,
Cold bottles she doth keep to cool my cheeks,
To give most sweet of all post-race solace,
That first cold drink, which cares not that one reeks.
And though she doth not speak, yet well I know,
That music hath no more a pleasing sound:
Than the clicking ere lid tips open so,
Presenting thus thirst quenchers all around.
And yet by heaven I feel such deep despair,
If her contents pre-race I don’t prepare.

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