Felt the cold on his nose like a frosty knife
And was never so sleepy in all his life.
But still bang, whang on the cracked old door!
And Elkanah shouting, “Mos’ ha’f-pas’ four!”
But the louder the old man pounded and yapped
The more the drummer garped and gapped.
At last says he: “Is it stormy—oh-h-h?”
“Wall,” says Elkanah, “she’s spittin’ snow.”
P. Mortimer Perkins snuggled down
And says he, “This isn’t a blamed bad town;