Excerpt from: 

Chronicles of Ull

Shakespeare On Skis

Yodel lo!  I say to thee sweet mountain top,

Here so far from London where snow drifts drop.

These waxëd planks face a wavered plot,

Oh to pay, or pay not, that is the question.

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to ski

The full afternoon without stopping for tea,

Or yield the resort's overcharged burden

and so agree.

Yet by opposing, victory.  Yes―ski!

Onward!  Speed well round yonder bush,

And to the backcountry trails shush.

There's much ado about back-bowl glades,

Fine driven powder down steep grade.

William's uncoil'n through moguls like a fire brigade,

On the double, double, toil and trouble,

Thighs burn, adrenaline bubble.

Shall I compare myself to a Hermann Meyer,

Perhaps Je’Claude Killy, the Franco flyer?

I the more complexive, most cerebrate―

All February’s fools at any rate.

But soft, what light above yon’ chalet breaks?

A golden lager house amidst snowflake!

Inviting merry-makers to unshell,

And confer what winter meadows tell—

‘Tis courageous sport that casts its lure,

Wreathed of happy issue, the welcomed cure.

Lofty fireside friends, let’s our hands extend—

What’s best always lies way the snowy bend,

Be hawk sure, erect and stout,

‘Til such a course comes to comely end. 

                                                    Karabetsos poetry