"Is it hot enough fer you?" Is it hot enough fer you? The mercury might climb the tube and spill right out the top— The sweat might ooze from every pore and off my carcass drop— I wouldn't mind the heat at all, and keep my temper too, If it wasn't for the cuss who says— "Is it hot enough fer you?" Is it hot enough fer you? The sun might shine his level best—the sky seem molten brass— The heat might dry up every stream, and burn up all the grass— The evening come without a breeze—the morning have no dew— If it wasn't for the 'moke' who asks "Is it hot enough fer you?" Is it hot enough fer you? [Pg 50] [Pg 50] THE TOKEN. Only a ringlet of flaxen hair, Tied with a ribbon blue, Laid by the hand of a mother there—
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