I beheld a shadow dodging, on the pavement 'neath my
lodging,
'Neath my unpretending lodging—opposite the very door:
"'Tis that prodigal," I muttered, "who enjoys the second
floor—
He it is, and nothing more."
Answering my thoughts, I stated, "'Tis the artist that's located
Here, returning home belated, seeking entrance at the door—
Coming back from where he's revelled, and, like me, with locks