Warmth-Generic Kind
Rum me fast,
Let it warm snowy sinews,
My fingers cannot move,
Heat them at last,
My legs feel leaden,
As if weighing tons,
Let them march past,
My facial muscles are screwed in hold,
Liquefy them from the cold,
Light the furnace,
Let the fire grab the rum in embrace,
Bring me a bowl of hot soup,
Which can heat me,
From toe to lip,
Put over me warmer clothes,
Freezing winds are working in like sharp lathes,
They are all my dearest hopes,
As I lye forlorn on a cold footpath,
And stagger up to get up catching stand rope.
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