An urchin stole his catch-penny.
And even the beggar's drab-fleeced poodle
Began to know him for a noodle.
"It has an uncelestial scent,
The clothing of this mendicant;"
He cried, "That trickling down my spine
Is anything but hyaline.
This day is like a thousand years:
I'd give an age of sighs and tears
To see with his confectioned grin