But with policemen plodding on their beat
And whistling apple-faces, clattering
Of milk-cans, painted carts and bicycles;
The water in the closet down below
Continually gingles, splish-a-splash,
And I go mad for very monotones.
The neat grey clerks trip to their offices
Meticulously punctual, little bags
Keep runic-rhythm to their gander steps.
The sun blinds like a harsh electric bulb,