Towards the denouement of the gleam of the Sun
The terra firma was buried under the veneer of rime
Where the trees were tucked
which stood to the fore of the longevous homestead of Sime.

In that storm of parky pellets
Tandem of hombre set foot in the domicile
And illuminated a tiny inferno,
Exploiting the logs of lumber on the deck

The duos owned twain logs each
And twiddle one’s thumbs,
awaiting for the gleam to decease
and then flaring another log of timbre,
to persevere their survival in that gloomy storm of Jack Frost.

But a fatalistic solitary notion
Elapsed through the psyche
Of the ou of peaches and cream
And a vehemence of acrimony
For the Stygian .

And then the mo came
When the blaze was to dout
And was crying out for a log of birch
But yet got no rejoinder
Neither from the light-skinned nor from the sable.

The sable then had a Jack Nohin
Into the orb of the pale
And asked him to give the log of timber to the flame.

But the bleached one
Delivered a scorn riposte
Saying not to succour the inky
Which filled the Stygian with retaliation of his derogatory.

The firestorm had demised
And had left its cinders
Along with the cadaver of the duplets
Who died not because of the cold of the environs
But because of the fire of odium in the core.