And lays to his untroubled soul the balm
Of that contentment oft denied to kings.
Not far off, on the shore, men fume and fret,
And prowl and howl and postulate and preach,
The Baby bellows in the bassinet,
And the Salvation Army on the beach.
The unsuccessful "Artist" of the "Halls"
Has blacked his face with cork, and now he sings
Of moons and coons and comic funerals