And was their bosom friend,—no day to pass
Between them and their grass.
“No grass!” they say who live
Where hot bricks give
The hot stones all their heat and back again,—
A baking hell for men.
“O, but,” they haste to say, “we have our parks,
Where fat policemen check the children’s larks;
And sign to sign repeats as in a glass,
‘Keep off the grass!’