My snow-globe is more rare than rare,—
A strange antique most singular:
Crafted by one in magick skill’d,
Its contents cannot e’er be spill’d.
It started as a crystal ball
Enchanted and invincible.
A snowman now doth dwell therein,
Blasphemous, foul, and wicked as sin.
He only dons a scarf and sneer,
This angry, deviled, little dear.
He bears within the globe alone
An endless blizzard’s blast and moan.
The little thing is largely mean:
He rages still and gluts his spleen.
He rages while the storm doth blow
Alike the thunder in the snow.

O.O