The Poobah of Aruba
When it's seven below
And the wind whips the snow
And icicles crack from the cold,
I think of him.
Caftan flowing, arms akimbo,
He scrutinizes the sea,
Eyeing the dancing dolphins and the deep horizon
For any sign of sail or spout.
Silently he stands and stares.
The sand warms his toes,
The sun is a sheen on his luxuriant hair.
Call to me, Poobah!
I will come!
Poobah won't be calling, he has lots of snowbird wierdos bothering him already!! Dave here, in snow at ZERO degrees -
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