Ode to My Clothes
Oh! isn't it hot!
Oh! isn't it hot!
And all is soft and clammy and damp,
No need to moisten your postage stamp!
The very stones
Have lost their tones
And don't re-echo the p'liceman's tramp!
And, oh! isn't it hot!
I puff and blow and tetter and trickle,
I feel like nothing so much as a pickle —
A strong, hot India-pickle!
It's a hot acetic vinegar pickles me,
Everything that touches me tickles me;
And, oh! if you knew how I hate my clothes,
Fathers and mothers of half my oaths!
But in broiling June
I'm out of tune,
And I swear too readily then, I fear,
If you gave me a thousand pounds a year,
I'd glare at you,
Stare at you,
Heartily swear at you,
For making a wealthy man of me,
With the thermometer ninety-three!
And, oh! how I hate my hat!
That box of roasted air!
With the hard hot brim that presses its rim
With all its main right into my brain,
And it leaves its red trail there!
And how I hate my blessed boots,
Of pedal agonies the roots!
Sources of throes and pangs and shoots!
And socks with aggravating holes —
Socks that ruck all under the soles!
And then my collar!
Peruvian ROLLA!
(Convenient rhyme)
In thy blest time
You wore no trousers, choker, collar, brace, or sleeve,
But went about,
In-doors and out,
In what young ladies call "square bodies," I believe.
Trousers, waistcoat, and coat,
You cost me a ten-pound note;
But back — back to your pegs.
Head, body, and legs,
Through you I have grown as thin as a lath.
Now learn that I
Intend
To spend
June and July
Prone in a six-foot icy bath —
It is so hot,
May I be shot
If I can find a rhyme to "bath"!