The morning is frosty; the air so chill.
But, ’tisn’t winter that makes my heart still.
As I lay warming in blankets’ embrace,
One thing will get me to leave this soft place.
Hark! Hear the fragrant beau’s noisy approach:
He squeaks as he rolls his big, stinky coach!
I rush down the stairs; I dress for outside.
I must get there soon! I lengthen my stride.
Quickly now! Line up the cans by the road!
They ought to be decent, for their bethrothed.
He’s nearly here -at the end of the street.
I’ve made my offer and now must retreat.
Back inside for me, still in my p.j.’s
Till we meet, my love, in seven more days.