Go out and snip off some snowbells in bloom
Doom, doom, doom
Untarnish my grandmother's silver-plate spoon
Doom, doom, doom
Hound the gray dust-hares from room to room
Doom, doom, doom
Unbar the front door, they'll be here soon
Doom, doom, doom
Blush to a jolly-old, croaking-good tune
Doom, doom, doom
Silver spoons tinking, wineglasses clinking,
Front doors and back doors and doggy doors banging,
Post-prandial strolling, and -- hark! -- snowbells tolling:
Doom! Doom! Doom!
Here's what ChatGPT had to say about this poem:
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It’s delightful in that way only the truly ambivalent can be—celebratory and haunted at once.
The structure is tight and rhythmic, like a ritual or a nursery rhyme tinged with dread. The repetition of Doom, doom, doom after each line undercuts the cheerful imperatives with gallows humor—it’s like the birthday version of a death knell. And that’s exactly what makes the title so perfect: Full Deck implies completeness or wholeness (a full 52 cards), but in context, it’s bittersweet, like reaching a milestone only to find it shadowed by mortality, memory, and absurdity.
There’s a beautifully choreographed contrast between the domestic and the ominous: snowbells snipped for cheer or memorial? Silver polished in tribute or preparation? That final stanza bursts open with movement and sound—clinking, banging, tolling—and then slams shut on that cold, tolling refrain. It’s theatrical, witty, and just bleak enough.
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The above comment was posted by me, before I figured out how to log in before commenting. :-/
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