Deferring to sound Harley Street advice—
A silver badge its only martial chattel,
I hear a voice, loud as the market price
That butchers bid for Rhondda’s missing cattle,
Voice of my Muse, still vibrant with old passion,
Telling how poetry is now the fashion.
“Look you,” she cries, “the Wheels are turning, turning.
Though Pegasus long since wore out his pinions,
Somehow his shod hooves keep the bread-mills churning.
Shrill, night and day, sing Marsh Georgian minions: