A sunburnt cretin cringes down below
For pennies, jangling out the tinny notes
Of some old catch of Marie Lloyd that scarce
Can drag a tune from out its crippled box.
Some children skip in time, a monkey bows
And capers to the laughing passers-by.
The cretin then wheels off and all is still
Save for the singing of the charwoman—
“I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls,” she sings
With shrill, cracked voice resounding down the street