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Poem	Up in my garret bleak and bare I tilted back on my broken chair, And my three old pals were with me there, Hunger and Thirst and Cold; Hunger scowled at his scurvy mate: Cold cowered down by the hollow grate, And I hated them with a deadly hate As old as life is old. So up in my garret that's near the sky I smiled a smile that was thin and dry: "You've roomed with me twenty year," said I, "Hunger and Thirst and Cold; But now, begone down the broken stair! I've suffered enough of your spite . . . so there!" Bang! Bang! I slapped on the table bare A glittering heap of gold. "Red flames will jewel my wine to-night; I'll loose my belt that you've lugged so tight; Ha! Ha! Dame Fortune is smiling bright; The stuff of my brain I've sold; Canaille of the gutter, up! Away! You've battened on me for a bitter-long day; But I'm driving you forth, and forever and aye, Hunger and Thirst and Cold." So I kicked them out with a scornful roar; Yet, oh, they turned at the garret door; Quietly there they spoke once more: "The tale is not all told. It's au revoir, but it's not good-by; We're yours, old chap, till the day you die; Laugh on, you fool! Oh, you'll never defy Hunger and Thirst and Cold."
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