Phil Forever Poem by Ima Ryma

They call me Punxsutawney Phil,
A groundhog with one day for me.
Each February second chill,
I am dragged out and made to see
How much more of winter I find,
Depending on my shadow state.
What dummies are most humankind.
No groundhog should suffer such fate.
This scam's gone on o'er hundred years.
Supposedly, I'm still the same
Phil, drinking long life elixirs,
Adding some magic to their game.

All I want to do is to dine.
The handler's finger should do fine.