You squeamish little cunt.
Fuck your twatish absences,
Your pissant little stunt.
Birds to hurried flight do take,
A dickish move of course–
Those arsehole Aves give not one fuck
If we freeze to death in force.
We thought to pass the season
But in hurried flight those cunt-tards fled,
So what the actual fuck?
(I hear your earnest protest,
“But ducks do stay the course”,
But I’m in no mood for splitting hairs
So fuck all false remorse.)
And screw your crafty PR moves,
And your blue-hued sunny skies.
I have a cunting bone to pick
With all your cunting lies.
So boo-fucking-hoo dear summer,
You craven, favoured guest,
I can’t pretend that I still miss you—
For I love winter best.