It comes down as double-ought shot, Or pointed pellets, half frozen Summer surprises, thrown wildly From above in percentages If you hear the weather-outlooks, Fifty percent means half of here, Will get it, and/ or half will not, The formula has nothing to do With we humanoids hereabouts, Vague shadow of pinpoignancy Of remonstrances from pulpits, About not behaving: watch out! Or is that a thing with St. Nick?