Climatic Sorcery

When frost's all on our winder, an' the snow's All out-o'-doors, our "Old-Kriss"-milkman goes A-drivin' round, ist purt'-nigh froze to death, With his old white mustache froze full o' breath.

But when it's summer an' all warm ag'in, He comes a-whistlin' an' a-drivin in Our alley, 'thout no coat on, ner ain't cold, Ner his mustache ain't white, ner he ain't old.

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