Stepping on out into a Chilly wind, I 

                       might Hesitate, twist

  and salvage my Rope lacy wool cap, but who’d subdue my nose

      among some gunk unsteady?  I covet phony trudge lumber,

          untenable treeS, heavy red who whip agreeable

 gawk: indeed, an uncivil fricTion crude choice, an essay on

    eggnog baloney, soMething other but fierce, nothing

        like SAnta, nothing but icy brune bleat, one

romp on the rooftop with twelve Stony hard feet.