I thought to make a list,
Not of people I'd kissed,
But of people I'd kill,
If just for the thrill.

Then to me occurred a thought:
There was a step I had forgot.
Before I could know the who,
I had to know the how to do.

So I searched through my head
For ways to make the dead.
Ways that were undetectable,
Yet still unforgettable.

The method should be clean,
And nothing too routine.
No evidence left behind
For anyone to find.

No idea came forth;
So I took a walk north,
Through the trees and snow,
Hoping the idea would show.

As I walked I noticed not
The water that had been caught,
And frozen as it dripped down;
Forming deadly daggers now.

The wind blew frantically through,
And what follows here is true:
When I sat and looked to heaven,
An icicle stabbed me at ten 'til seven.

I realized much too late,
Through a wicked twist of fate,
The method for which I searched
Could be found on a wintry birch.

An icicle sharpened would penetrate,
And no traces could it create.
Although the perfect weapon I did now know,
There I quickly died, knee-deep in snow.