It's quite soon we will travel down south,
To the place where we winter our souls,
Not yet two frogs, but snowbirding still,
Our place in the Sun (after tolls).
We hope to be greeted by others,
whose roots may have started quite faraway,
From places like Omaha, Detroit, and beyond,
But whose resident flags now display.
The snow may fly steadily northwards,
The ice stubbornly cling to the walks,
But we'll bask in the Villages' sunshine,
And engage in warm neighborly talks.
The pizza's not perfect, the bagels oft dicey,
The traffic gets rough, the sauce sometimes spicey,
Hope the golf car starts and love bugs are at bay,
I only wish we were there today.
