No singer in bathtubs, I lift up my voice

Against a contraption that gives me no choice

Of sitting bolt upright and warming my knees

While my chest and my back and my upper parts freeze.

Or dunking the top of me, fore part and aft,

And exposing my legs and my feet to the draft.

In short, I'm too long, and I can't for the soul of me

Submerge, as I'd like, at one moment the whole of me.

So I shift back and forth and unhappily fidget

And swear that the tub was designed by a midget.