The underground distils its mousy faces,
Creased Macintoshes,
The constant sink of grey.
The scoop hack is cocksure,
Today shadows will blab on passable men.
A tally is growing
Of strange boo-boo passions,
Sloberers with tickling lips are on it.
A Mr. Landell of Harwich
– for some obscure abstraction
and circlers of black light,
a mummy’s boy with a Windsor violet handkerchief.
The Q.C. who went slapping
His garters
Riskily jaunty,
The Colonel who splurges sunbath June
In sordid Moroccan sand.
A shuffle of cabs,
A game of find-the-lady,
Two by two omnibuses move,
A shebang of hordes,
Trams heave their numb burdens
And Christopher Charmers is careless with talk.
*Sticky dirt
