T'was the week before Christmas and across the lake,
No one was sailing, everything was dead.
Boats at the lake sit lonely and still,
Winterized and covered, protected from winds shrill.
Caryn is now busy with wrapping and baking,
While Earl browses Nauti News with aching.
The weather had been mild, why did I winterize,
"We could be out sailing," he says with agonize.
To Sugar, to Smith, and ole' Cow Bay,
To Duncan, to Demumbers, even the Rock Quarry.
My house may look like Patty's full of bright bustle,
but I wish I were anchored at Green Turtle.
It doesn't rhyme, but you get the idea.