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MORNING BATHS.

So I sang at summer's end,

With winter drawing on.

Out of bed I crept one morning,

Touched the icy tin, -

All my blood seemed curdled where the

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Metal met my skin.

My joints grew numb, my poor teeth chattered,

My lips turned stiff and blue,

As from the frozen sponge I spattered

Water freezing too.

Morning baths may do for others;

I shall take no more.

Valetudinarianism

Is a horrid bore.

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