When nothing's fit to eat, or drink, or wear,
And nothing suits but air.

Let Summer come! said I;
Let _something_ happen quick, or I shall die!
I want to change my diet, clothes,--my skin,--
_Myself_, if not a sin!

(_One_ thing, I would remark,
I didn't dream of: that was Central Park.)
All these (the Park included) I have had;
Of course you think I'm glad.

No, I can't say I am.
Your summer, I must tell you, is a sham!
I _might_, perhaps, have some poetic flights,
If I could sleep o' nights!

But who on earth _can_ sleep
When the thermometer's so awful steep?
The night, if anything, (at least _our_ way,)
Is hotter than the day!

And then--my stars!--_oh_, then!
When sleep would kindly visit weary men,
The dread mosquito stings away his rest.
Ah-h-h! _curse_ that pest!

But breakfast comes,--so soon
You almost wish they'd put it off till noon!