When you see how the snark shivers sad in the cold,
It makes you forget all your woe.
With his claws clenched in tight and his fur fluffing bold,
the snark is a summertime foe.
Evr’y feather a-quiver, each toe tucked away,
he waits for the warmth to return.
He’s no comeback to offer, no quip to purvey
until there is sunshine to burn.
So be gentle, dear friends, if you meet him unarmed;
in the winter, his bite fades to bark.
Should he die, that would fast be a cause for alarm:
what’s the fun in a heat wave sans snark?
You’re welcome, Lewis Carroll.