the 'buses run to battersea,

the 'buses run to bow,

the 'buses run to westbourne grove,

and nottinghill also;

but i am sick of london town,

from shepherd's bush to bow.

i see the smut upon my cuff

and feel him on my nose;

i cannot leave my window wide

when gentle zephyr blows,

because he brings disgusting things

and drops 'em on my "clo'es."

the sky, a greasy soup-toureen,

shuts down atop my brow.

yes, i have sighed for london town

and i have got it now:

and half of it is fog and filth,

and half is fog and row.

[pg 214]

and when i take my nightly prowl,

'tis passing good to meet

the pious briton lugging home

his wife and daughter sweet,

through four packed miles of seething vice,

thrust out upon the street.

earth holds no horror like to this

in any land displayed,

from suez unto sandy hook,

from calais to port said;

and 'twas to hide their heathendom

the beastly fog was made.

i cannot tell when dawn is near,

or when the day is done,

because i always see the gas

and never see the sun,

and now, methinks, i do not care

a cuss for either one.

but stay, there was an orange, or

[pg 215]an aged egg its yolk;

it might have been a pears' balloon

or barnum's latest joke:

i took it for the sun and wept

to watch it through the smoke.

it's oh to see the morn ablaze

above the mango-tope,

when homeward through the dewy cane

the little jackals lope,

and half bengal heaves into view,

new-washed—with sunlight soap.

it's oh for one deep whisky peg

when christmas winds are blowing,

when all the men you ever knew,

and all you've ceased from knowing,

are "entered for the tournament,

and everything that's going."

but i consort with long-haired things

in velvet collar-rolls,

who talk about the aims of art,

and "theories" and "goals,"

and moo and coo with women-folk

about their blessed souls.

[pg 216]

but that they call "psychology"

is lack of liver pill,

and all that blights their tender souls

is eating till they're ill,

and their chief way of winning goals

consists in sitting still.

it's oh to meet an army man,

set up, and trimmed and taut,

who does not spout hashed libraries

or think the next man's thought,

and walks as though he owned himself,

and hogs his bristles short.

hear now, a voice across the seas

to kin beyond my ken,

if ye have ever filled an hour

with stories from my pen,

for pity's sake send some one here

to bring me news of men!

the 'buses run to islington,

[pg 217]to highgate and soho,

to hammersmith and kew therewith,

and camberwell also,

but i can only murmur "'bus"

from shepherd's bush to bow.