When you’re out and about in the winter’s cold

And the end of your nose starts to drip

When the bitter wind chill blows a freeze on your cill

And dries it to a crust on your lip

When the size of the port in your nasal reveal

Has shrunk to the size of a dot

And your brain can’t regain the front of you head

From the blockage of  package of snot

When the glow from you konk has them dipping their lights

And birds stop on by for a warm

Then you know it must go, and it’s time for a blow

There’s a function which you must perform

As you reach through the layers and finger the cloth

And dread the results of this deed

Again and again you will suffer this pain

But still you proceed to procced

A hard blast at last removes it so fast

And it rockets, projectile in hand

Next comes the part that sure sets us apart

When it’s folded and opened and scanned

Yes, you do, you  examine your goo

And check the results of the feat

Then you realise you’re the subject of eyes

Maybe next time you should be more discreet