Of the regulars, there was a story teller
named Bink.
His stories went something like this:

‘Member one year when five feet of snow fell in one night.
Poor old Grandpa was only 4 foot 8.
Until the Spring thaw we thought he’d just run off.

‘Course Grandma was quite relieved
when the stuff  started to melt
and Grandpa’s hat finally
reappeared. (She always liked that hat.)

She was upset of course
when his entire head emerged and,
after an hour or so,
his tongue began to thaw.

Seems that while he was out there,
in that suspended state,
Grandpa had a lot of time to think,

and one of the things he thought was
that he never wanted to see such
cruel weather again.

Once he started to speak it proved pert-near impossible
to shut the man up.
He went on and on about moving to
a more hospitable climate.

The time seemed right.

After all Grandpa was gettin’ on in years,
as was his outerwear.
His overcoat was thread bare at the elbows,
his boots worn out in the sole,
his hat hadn’t taken well to being frozen so long
His mittens, well,
you couldn’t even call them mittens no more;
rags is what they was.
Soon enough it would either be replace all this gear
or move down south to a better climate.

Grandpa somehow got fixed on a paradise
called Up State New York
and that was all he ever talked about,
moving down there to Up State New York.

Someone at the travel bureau
told him that, down that way,
they never got more than a foot or two of snow
in a single night. And,
the poor old man believed it.