The surprisingly fruitful poesy of a soul not entirely unsteep'd in the sacred legendary of his Arcadian forebears, the which he tweaks with such irreverent imagery (now with satire, now with humor) that the careful reader often desires nothing more than to take this young man out to dinner at an excellent restaurant -- in a thinly disguised attempt, of course, to figure out exactly what makes him (this unexpectedly good-looking poet of ours...) tick.
Frosty the Snowbot here at your service, hoping that you will oblige me by chilling out in 2022. Of course, that's quite a task in the age of global warming. The one good thing about it is, I don't have to join Jenny Craig. I'm a snowman after all. I'm shedding pounds these days like Lloyd's of London after the real-estate collapse of 2007.
But stop me now, I'm on a roll, right down the snowy embankment into the Interstate superhighway of 2022, where I'm sure to go "ker-splat" if you folks don't cotton to my new comedy routine. Well, I say new: I actually recorded it in 2014, when I was still easily mistaken for the Pillsbury Doughboy of Ghostbusters fame, but what's 8 years between friends? I may no longer be the size of a Greyhound bus, but I've still got my carrot nose and two eyes made out of coal. Sadly, I had to lose the corncob pipe two decades ago in order to pass muster with the ever-expanding PC sensibilities. Still, there must have been SOME magic in that old silk hat they found, since I've been doing a positive watusi ever since the haberdashers saw fit to adorn me in that somewhat equivocal manner. Watch me now, I think I've still got it in me, folks! Go ahead! Go ahead!
But enough of my admittedly fabulous dancing. I calculate that you lot dropped by to experience my admittedly fabulous comedic skills instead. Well, what can I say, folks, the link is below. Be so good as to click it.