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.