Ode to cold

They told me once,
They told me twice,
Three times they told,
but I did not heed their warnings
about the cold.

So here I lay in bed,
my fourth day in a row,
on a diet of rice and
tea of something I don't quite know.
Half the town has visited me
bearing gifts of oranges and wine.
By the way they all stare at me,
once would think I might die.

It all began four nights ago,
in the mountains there was snow.
I layed bundled in my bed when
I realized i couldn't feel my toes.
I pressed my feet against the gas stove,
burning with a heat so red,
yet I couldn't feel a thing, not a sting,
my feet were dead.

Now it seems to everyone that
I have a death wish of pneumonia,
because in a week I shall travel south
to the land of the Patagonia.
At a cozy 4 degrees i will board a ship
used to transport cattle,
where the primary means of staying warm
is to drink whiskey straight from the bottle.
For 3 days i will float past glaciars
to the southern most tip of land.
I'll be sure to take lots of photos,
though I probably won't feel my hands!

They told me once,
They told me twice,
Three times they told,
yet I still won't heed their warnings
about the cold.