NINETY-EIGHT IN THE SHADE

Pavements a-frying in street and in square,

Never a breeze in the blistering air,

Never a place where a fellow can run

Out of the shine of the sizzling sun:

“General Humidity” having his way,

Killing us off by the hundred a day;

Mercury climbing the tube like a shot,—

Suffering Caesar! I tell you it's hot!

Collar kerflummoxed all over my neck,

Necktie and bosom and wristbands a wreck,

Handkerchief dripping and worn to a shred

Mopping and scouring my face and my head;

Simply ablaze from my head to my feet,

Back all afire with the prickles of heat,—

Not on my cuticle one easy spot,—

Jiminy Moses! I tell you it's hot!

Give me a fan and a seat in the shade,

Bring me a bucket of iced lemonade;

Dress me in naught but the thinnest of clothes,

Start up the windmill and turn on the hose:

Set me afloat from my toes to my chin,

Open the ice-box and fasten me in,—

If it should freeze me, why, that matters not,—

Brimstone and blazes! I tell you it's HOT!