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At a spiffing new spa on the corner, a hazel-eyed health nut named Lorna
    said I needed to nurture my lungs.
A new specimen of the spa’s fauna, I was new to its nature, but Lorna
    cut through the confusion of tongues.
“There’s no greater boon for the breathing than an atmosphere steamy and seething,
    so go sweat in the sauna – it’s swell!”
Though the sweltering may be salubrious, by the end I was sore and lugubrious
    like some tormented sinner in Hell.
Lorna left me with these words, post-yoga (when it seemed some philosopher’s toga,
    not a fluffy white towel, did adorn ’er):
“When you find that each new inspiration is ninety-nine parts perspiration—
    it’s time to get out of the sauna.”