Slicing the street in pools of amber light,
Chipping the railings here and chopping there
The tulips of the houses opposite.
The clock strikes nine and now with sleek top-hats,
The tea and toast still tasting in their mouths,
The Times not full digested in their minds,
The pompous middle-aged to business go
Soliloquising fondly to themselves
About the new percentage income tax.
Then convex matrons interview the cook.