The only line I ever much liked in Allen Ginsberg's poem "Howl" was ...
HOLY BOP APOCALYPSE
That's a little the way it feels around here. The local newspaper has it on the front page in large, end-of-the-world type: "PRIMED FOR WINTER'S WRATH." My wife decided to postpone a train trip home from New Jersey and suggests on the phone that I call someone to shovel and plow. And my mind dithers like a novice in a whorehouse ... get in more wood, lay in some more food, and make sure candles, flashlights and water are close at hand.
Mind you, barely a flake of snow has fallen, but there is a chorus that soars like Beethoven's 9th.
It's like going to the dentist ... I haven't even reached the office and the pain has already begun.