The furnace tolls the knell of falling steam,
     The coal supply is virtually done,
And at this price, indeed it does not seem
     As though we could afford another ton.

Now fades the glossy, cherished anthracite,
     The radiators lose their temperature:
How ill avail, on such a frosty night,
     The “short and simple flannels of the poor.”

Though in the ice-box, fresh and newly laid,
     The rude forefathers of the omelet sleep,
No eggs for breakfast till the bill is paid:
     We cannot cook again till coal is cheap.
   
Can Morris-chair or papier-maché bust
     Revivify the falling pressure gauge?
Chop up the grand piano if you must,
     And burn the East Aurora parrot-cage!

Full many a can of purest kerosene
      The dark unfathomed tanks of Standard Oil
Shall furnish me, and with their aid I mean
      To bring my morning coffee to a boil.

The village collier (flinty-hearted beast)
      Who tried to hold me up in such a pinch
May soon be numbered with the dear deceased:
     I give him to the mercy of Judge Lynch.