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.