Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/Hot Day

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Hot Day.
What a plague's a summer breakfast, Eat whate'er you will!A roll is but a nasty thing, And toast is nastier still.
Then how to pass the time away Till dinner—there's the doubt:You're hot if you stay in the house— Your hot if you go out.
When dinner comes, oh, help us all! Such frying! such a stew!You're hot if you don't touch a bit— Your hotter if you do.
Then after dinner what to do? No knowing where to rove—The gentlemen are hot below, The ladies hot above.
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And now the kettle comes again; That's not the way to cool one:Tea makes an empty stomach hot, And hotter still a full one.
Well now the supper's come, and come To make bad worse I wot;For supper, whilst it heats the cool, Will never cool the hot.
And bed, which cheers the cold man's heart, Helps not the hot a pin;For he who's hot when out of bed, Is ten times hotter in.

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