Improper Dress

A poem about retrieving the morning paper in the cold without proper attire.

Oh the weather outside is chilly,
And I find it rather silly,
That I don a robe so frilly,
To reach outside for the paper,
And get attacked by the frozen vapor,
As my neighbor uses his scraper,
On his car windows covered in frost,
But my paper not properly tossed,
Has some how gotten lost,
In the bushes near the door,
Making it quite the chore,
And my fingers, toes, and more,
Are chilled right down to the bone,
My skin turning to stone,
If only the paper had been thrown,
Right up on the porch,
I wouldn't need a torch,
To thaw what now is scorched,
By frozen and bitter chill,
That became the bitter pill,
I took without a thrill,
As I braved winter's cold,
In scant clothing oh so bold,
That my neighbor had to scold,
On such a chilly day,
Why the paper couldn't make its way,
To where it normally lay,
Right there on the stoop,
Where I could simply scoop,
It up with barely a droop,
Alas, I must confess,
That I have caused this stress,
By my improper dress.