Cold as ice

The hen's water was frozen this morning. The broken ice hasn't melted at all today.

I went to a funeral of a man who had no faith, except in his knowledge of chemistry.

A poem 'Epitaph on my own Friend'' by Robert Burns was read out, and it finishes with these 2 lines:

"If there's another world, he lives in bliss;
If there is none, he made the best of this."


What an empty, ridiculous, dangerous platitude!