A cast-iron stove will keep you hot
And more than once, as like as not.
Once in winter, when it should,
And once in autumn, when the wood
Lands on your driveway in a heap
(You bought a ton – it seemed so cheap)
And all to clear before it’s dark
Or else you’ll have no place to park.
So lift and carry; drop and stack
With filthy hands and aching back.
At first a challenge – almost fun
But then you’re sweating in the sun.
Repeated bending takes its toll;
The stacked-up logs begin to roll;
You have to find a place to fit
Each gnarled and knobbly, spiky bit
And while you try to squeeze it in
It does its best to pierce your skin.
You say to it “I may be tired –
But you, my friend, will soon be fired!”
