Climatic Sorcery

When frost's all on our winder, an' the snow's
All out-o'-doors, our 'Old-Kriss'-milkman goes
A-drivin' round, ist purt'-nigh froze to death,
With his old white mustache froze full o' breath.

But when it's summer an' all warm ag'in,
He comes a-whistlin' an' a-drivin in
Our alley, 'thout no coat on, ner ain't cold,
Ner his mustache ain't white, ner he ain't old.

poem by James Whitcomb Riley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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