Nor fertid smell flew the air
from where cometh we know not
sweetness ain't there either, but
huggardness hugs hags in rugs
'round a wintry hearth.

Curtained,
the window hath salvation
but daylight never delivers, but
viscous mercurial mucus rivers
down the nose course.

Grant, sneeze, cough – cough!
Grand coats (some from the War)
grimly show up a greying morn, and
'pon this de javu
life has to go on.