THE furnace tolls the knell of falling steam, <br />The coal supply is virtually done, <br />And at this price, indeed it does not seem <br />As though we could afford another ton. <br /> <br />Now fades the glossy, cherished anthracite; <br />The radiators lose their temperature: <br />How ill avail, on such a frosty night, <br />The 'short and simple flannels of the poor.' <br /> <br />Though in the icebox, fresh and newly laid, <br />The rude forefathers of the omlet sleep, <br />No eggs for breakfast till the bill is paid: <br />We cannot cook again till coal is cheap. <br /> <br />Can Morris-chair or papier-mâché bust <br />Revivify the falling pressure-gage? <br />Chop up the grand piano if you must, <br />And burn the East Aurora parrot cage! <br /> <br />Full many a can of purest kerosene <br />The dark unfathomed tanks of Standard Oil <br />Shall furnish me, and with their aid I mean <br />To bring my morning coffee to a boil.<br /><br />Christopher Morley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/elegy-written-in-a-country-coal-bin/
