From Rude Rural Rhymes by Bob Adams, New York: The Macmillan Company; 1925; pp. 119-120.
WINTER WOES
Of all the ills with which I’m cursed
The winter furnace is the worst.
On balmy days it rolls up heat,
But balks on days of cold and sleet.
And ever when my wife complains
I do not take sufficient pains
Nor use my substitute for brains,
Once more the furnace mouth I stoke,
Once more the iron bar I poke
Among the cinders, ash and coke,
I bend my frame at its equator
And operate the agitator.
I get the ash ’tis very true,
But half the fire comes following through.
Then when my strength is quite expended,
I find the grate is end-for-ended.
There’s nothing in the world to do
But clean it out and start anew.
In vain my weary eyes I raise
No snappy kindling meets my gaze.
Jim Jones, from whom I ordered wood,
Has failed to function as he should.
That cussed furnace is the reason
[120]
I so lament the vanished season
When every gent had B. V. D’s on,
When summer birdies lifted lilts
And folks could sleep without the quilts.