Think about the Snow In Summertime You know it never feels quite right The ice should have melted months ago When we're alone, it's 45 below Now you say you're on it Sit down and write me a sonnet But it's too late, anyway The president drinks turpentine That explains his breath But what's on your mind? Our addresses don't read the same You packed your bags But you left behind the blame Now you say you're on it Sit down and write me a sonnet But it's too late, anyway