(Sung to "Send In the Clowns" from A Little Night Music. Apologies to Sondheim, who won't see this anyway; and to Philadelphians, who may take it personally.) SEND IN THE PLOWS Isn't it white? Isn't it flat? The street is somewhere over there, beneath all of that-- Send in the plows. Don't we get weird, cooped up all day? Regress 'til we're Calvin and Hobbes! Go out and play! But where are the plows? Send in the plows. Just when I'd dug out to the cars, Finally brushing them off to see which one was ours, Tried the ignition again, even got it to run, Another foot fell. Back to square one. I don't mean to bitch, or be unkind. But cross-country skiers on freeways are out of their minds! Call for the plows. How can they plow A street they can't find? Isn't it white? Isn't it bleak? Home on the modem today, one more net-geek. And where are the plows? There ought to be plows. Well, maybe next week.
(From the "Rest" of RHF)