V. SANDWICH-MAN

An ill March noon; the flagstones gray with dust;

An all-round east wind volleying straws and grit;

ST. MARTIN'S STEPS, where every venomous gust

Lingers to buffet, or sneap, the passing cit;

And in the gutter, squelching a rotten boot,

Draped in a wrap that, modish ten-year syne,

Partners, obscene with sweat and grease and soot,

A horrible hat, that once was just as fine;

The drunkard's mouth a-wash for something drinkable,

The drunkard's eye alert for casual toppers,

The drunkard's neck stooped to a lot scarce thinkable,

A living, crawling blazoning of Hot-Coppers,

He trails his mildews towards a Kingdom-Come

Compact of sausage-and-mash and two-o’ - rum!