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?