Drop A Tear In This Slot / O Henry

He who, when torrid Summer's sickly glare

Beat down upon the city's parched walls,

Sat him within a room scarce 8 by 9,

And, with tongue hanging out and panting breath,

Perspiring, pierced by pangs of prickly heat,

Wrote variations of the seaside joke

We all do know and always loved so well,

And of cool breezes and sweet girls that lay

In shady nooks, and pleasant windy coves

Anon

Will in that self-same room, with tattered quilt

Wrapped round him, and blue stiffening hands,

All shivering, fireless, pinched by winter's blasts,

Will hale us forth upon the rounds once more,

So that we may expect it not in vain,

The joke of how with curses deep and coarse

Papa puts up the pipe of parlor stove.

So ye

Who greet with tears this olden favorite,

Drop one for him who, though he strives to please

Must write about the things he never sees.