Twenty bills he had paid for goods costly and rare
For those females! and now could not possibly spare
An additional stamp. Unaccustomed to swear,
It was startling to hear him say: “Darned if it’s fair!”
In an eight by ten office, half sweltered with heat,
Sat T. Simpson, the jobber. He gazed at his feet
Which reposed on a desk, just in front of his chair,
While his face was dejected and full of despair;
And he owed not a cent; his accounts were all square—
No, not that, but the problem of Nothing to Wear