  I love to walk about at night By nasty lanes and corners foul, All shielded from the unfriendly light And independent as the owl. By dirty grates I love to lurk; I often stoop to take a squint At printers working at their work. I muse upon the rot they print. The beggars please me, and the mud: The editors beneath their lamps As—Mr. Howl demanding blood, And Lord Retender stealing stamps, And Mr. Bing instructing liars, His elder son composing trash; Beaufort (whose real name is Meyers) Refusing anything but cash. I like to think of Mr. Meyers, I like to think of Mr. Bing. I like to think about the liars: It pleases me, that sort of thing. Policemen speak to me, but I, Remembering my civic rights, Neglect them and do not reply. I love to walk about at nights! At twenty-five to four I bunch Across a cab I can’t afford. I ring for breakfast after lunch. I am as happy as a lord! |
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