At first I loved thee--thou wast warm,--
The porter called thee "'ot," nay, "bilin.'"
I tipped him as thy welcome form
He carried, with a grateful smile, in.
Alas! thou art a faithless friend,
Thy warmth was but dissimulation;
Thy tepid glow is at an end,
And I am nowhere near my station!
I shiver, cold in feet and hands,
It is a legal form of slaughter,
They don't warm(!) trains in other lands
With half a pint of tepid water.
I spurn thy coldness with a kick,
And pile on rugs as my protectors.
I'd send--to warm them--to Old Nick,
Thy parsimonious Directors!
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