The Next Morning.

A poem by Edwin C. Ranck

What a difference in the morning
When you try to raise your head;
When your eyelids seem so heavy
You could swear they were of lead;
When your tongue is thickly coated
And you have an awful thirst;
When you drink so much cold water
That you feel about to burst;
When you lift your hand towards heaven
And solemnly do say:
"I'm going to 'cut out' drinking
And I'll swear off right to-day."

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