Frost On The Snow

"Frost On The Snow"
a collection of poems
by Robert Frost

BACK COVER:
Finally! An anthology of Robert Frost's work on the snow! Didn't you ever get sick of him writing about everything else? Oh, a puppy frolicking around on some warm grass? I don't give a shit about that puppy. Now, you put that puppy freezing his cute little toes off in some snow and I'm there!

And only Robert Frost could write over 300 pages of poetry just about snow.

Suck a fat non-snow rod, T.S. Idiot!

I'm telling you right now that there is no higher plane of writing than that of Frost's endless obsession with snow. Snow is where mankind began, in the Ice Age. Snow is where mankind will end, in another Ice Age. If this book could've been made out of snow, it would've been. And Robert Frost probably would've written an entire 'nother book just about this one being made of snow.

Why? Because snow inspires Robert Frost. It's his life force. He's like that claymation ice king in that one old Narnia-Christmas movie where he has to battle the fire king. Except Frost is tougher than death. Shit, he looked like he was on the verge of a grave since his early 30s.

This book includes the classics:
"Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening"
"Snow On A Winter's Day"
"Birds In The Snow"
"An Old Man And His Snow"
"Snow, Snow, Snow"

Didn't you ever read Frost's poems your sophomore year of high school and think, "Man, this guy was onto something. I wish I could love snow like he loves snow. But all I care about are football games and hand jobs."

Well, listen up, dickhead! Snow! It's here, in your hands!

Why, here's an excerpt from The Snowiest Snow I Ever...Snowed:

But the snow is dim, under the pale moon light,
which looks like snow, so snowy and white,
but spring will come, snow's ultimate curse,
and me, here in the snow, where my bones hurt.

Did you just fucking read that right now? His bones hurt. He almost died for this literature deal. Here's another excerpt, this time from Snowflakes On My Snowy Head:

There is snow on my head! Get it off!
There is snow in my bed! Get it out!
There is snow in my whiskers!
I am a cat!

Now ask yourself: did Robert Frost straight-up just own your snowless face on that one? Get some snow on you. And write about it. Because if there's anything that Robert Frost's death taught us over 40 years ago, it was that snow...fucking...rules.

Get some.
Snow.