Sneeze, cough and grumble at the fog.
Jerusalem no more golden is
Than gloomy Bayswater, I wis!
Her portals strike an awe profound—
“Fly, loiterers, this is holy ground!
Quell impropriety of tone;
Hawkers and circulars begone”—
For here the ruling race reside
And guard our pledges and their pride.
Her doors are sour: they never smile,