Poem/Story/Thing

One bitter morning, the snow came down,
The weather acerbic, it relentlessly fell all around,
The once green lawns, were smothered in white,
The entire village was just inviting frostbite.

It seemed to them all that winter had finally come,
This long ancient wish, true it had become!
It fluttered, it flurried for five whole days,
The villagers walked to and fro' in such a cold daze.

One day the committee gathered together,
They talked, bickered, and agreed, cursing the weather,
'Something, O' something, must be done!' this was the issue, decided upon.
They merrily concurred, and argued some more 'But what? And how?' Could it be nature had won?

The lambs and the cows were not getting fat, the butchers grew angry and really quite red,
The carrots and potatoes wouldn't even grow, 'Too cold for potatoes? How will we be fed?'
The doctors were swamped, the nurses engaged,
Every professional was at home sipping chicken soup, they couldn't work while their ruddy cold raged.

Schools were closed, by the avalanche of pearly cold,
Children were home running a temperature so bold,
Old people were getting seriously ill,
People were now starting to lose their good will.

Then when it had been, firmly two weeks,
A young man called Peter, who was a seller of antiques,
Decided that it was him, only he who could help,
This poor little village who if could would yelp.

He constructed a machine, roughly like a car,
It was huge and quite scary, after all, this is a story fetched far,
So he invented this thing, which had no real name,
And he actually didn't know if it would be of aid or would maim.

He concluded in his thoughts that he would have to test it out,
So he drove to the mountains, following the snowy route,
He drove and he drove, until the summit he reached,
Stopping the vehicle, he let himself out, his car was so white, it was as if it was bleached.

He unbuckled the rather ugly machine,
He pulled on the gear stick and heard a low scream,
The thing on the front, shaped like a claw,
Gathered up snow, much like a paw.

The snow he had gathered, he put in the monster's boot,
He cleared the mountain, and headed back down the route,
Arriving in town, he went to the lawyer's home,
They talked and they talked to details the size of tooth combs.

Next he wandered over to the newspaper foundry,
The next morning they woke, to find a box with a red boundary,
The article read, in a font so bold,
Ask Peter Pilfer to clear your garden of snow, he charges just 1,000 gold.

Welcome to Capitalism, girls and boys,
Where the patent means no one can play with that toy,
Now didn't this story, have a rather random end?
And I don't think you realised, four pointless minutes you've spent

^_^ It sucks, I know. :)