And, like a walrus, plunge into the deep;
Then jump out in a trice,
Dissevering the icicles as you leap,
Even though the after-glow
Of virtue melts the circumjacent snow.
And we of milder mould,
And we who're growing old,
Wish they would wash, like other folk, elsewhere;
It makes us feel quite cold
To think of them refrigerating there;