Onstage

All others love the heat; so do not I,
Who under wraps must spend my precious sweat
Until I feel the loss shall make me die.
So every person I so far have met
Cries out in joy I wish I could forget
To feel the air concocted with this heat.
They do not have to spend the evening wet
With self-bestaining fluid, nor to greet
The morning in exhaustion, incomplete
And dehydrated. No, they will not be
A heap of cinders. They pronounce it sweet,
And wonderful to have the warmth. To me
It is a torture - oh, for cold and rain
To rid me of this unrelenting pain.