THE HAPPY JOURNALIST
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!