In the dreary winter weather, when the glass is down to nought,
And you fail to do those chilly jobs you really know you ought;
When you shudder in the office and you shiver in the street,
And at intervals you wonder if you have mislaid your feet;
Has it struck you that the time o' day that palest fear implants
Is that little space of seconds 'tween the blankets and your pants?

When you should arise at seven, and you don't get up till eight,
And have to coin excuses ev'ry morn for coming late,
Why blame the influenza, or the house clock, or the trams?
These are old, worn-out excuses, and the boss knows they are shams
Just be a man.  Confess it was the time that seems like weeks
'Tween the drawing of the bedclothes and the donning of your breeks.

You lie there snuggled nice and warm, and listen to the rain,
But you don't fear that cold drizzle beating on the frosted pane.
You lie and watch your trousers with a fascinated stare,
And wonder how the devil you will get from here to there.
It isn't rain or frost you fear, or coldest wind that blows,
It's the interval between the bed and those forked nether clothes.

You're mighty pleased and satisfied when once you've got 'em on;
You're a hero, you're a veteran, and you've crossed the Rubicon.
Then you paddle to the bathroom, down a draughty corridor;
You feed the chicks and fool around for half an hour or more,
You splash about and dash about: but, oh, it pales your cheeks
To think how you leapt from bed and grappled with your breeks.

Come many troubles in a day, aye, maybe terrors, too:
There are cares about the household; office worries, not a few;
Mayhap you fear a bankruptcy, and dread financial smash;
You've quarreled with your sweetheart, or you're short, say, in your cash;
But on a winter's day, the dread that all the rest supplants
Is in the second's bareness 'tween the blankets and your pants.

"Klariden"
The Gadfly, 21 February 1906, p3