Whose home this is I think you know.
He lives within my basement though;
And knows that he must earn his keep
And clear my deck filled up with snow.
My little gnome must think it queer
To shovel without an ending near
Between the chair and frozen grill
The coldest morning of the year.
He gives his red hat bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of heavy drift and downy flake.
My deck is massive, dark and deep,
But he has promises to keep,
And miles to go before he sleeps,
And miles to go before he sleeps.