I’ve got chilblains on my toes.
How that happened, goodness knows.
No one takes more care than me
To thwart the possibility.
All through the wintertime, I treat
My agéd, well-worn, size ten feet
Like fragile little flowers: no
Extremes of temperature; no snow,
No walking barefoot by the sea,
No toasty fires at night for me…
And all – alas, alack – in vain.
That vicious, itching, burning pain
Tells me, despite all I have done,
The little buggers have still won.