It was 32 degrees fahrenheit on one winter morning.

There was a lad outside in London with his hot tea, burning.

He looked up to the sky,

Then back down to his cup,

Boy, I wish it would snow, he was yearning.

Atop, in the sky, was a stratus cloud forming.

And in that cloud, a small, young snowflake performing.

It looked down to the ground,

And saw, safe and sound,

That the boy was waiting on it.

The boy cried, When will those snowflakes come on my hand to sit?

I’ve been a good boy, and have done all my chores.

I’ve mopped the whole kitchen,

On my knees I have sores,

I’ve waited and waited, but haven’t seen one.

The snowflake cried, I must go now, though hot is the sun,

But the others are waiting, they’re a hundred to one.

Yet it decided to drop,

And flew down to the boy,

And right then it turned 31.