The Lodging-house fire

So goes my life each day—

Its hours are twenty-four—

Four hours I live lukewarm,

And kill a score.

No man lives life so wise

But unto Time he throws

Morsels to hunger for

At his life’s close.

Were all such morsels heaped—

Time greedily devours,

When man sits still—he’d mourn

So few wise hours.

But all my day is waste,

I live a lukewarm four

And make a red coke fire

Poison the score.