Arrived at the wharf there was not
Another soul in sight ... except at the very end
Where sat a most woebegone looking Tramp
Smoking what was once a cigar
Of price. Half smoked it had been thrust
In the gutter at the theater-entrance
By a careless and prosperous merchant.
The Tramp was very near to the edge looking out
Over the water as blankly as a blind man.
A man! Look at him ... and I a mere cat!
No doubt Old Horton was right.... One leap
Into the darkness and all gloomy thoughts,
All trouble, like the half-finished cigar
Would give place to beautiful dreams and
Never-ending.... At least it cannot be much
Worse.... No! Far better than the foul gutter
And the murderous cravings for the unattainable.
I shall burst my bonds and jump in.