On tank and wall,
You’ll find the scrawl
Of the tramp’s monarka-scout.
Taint of the nomad’s blood! God, if we could
but burst
From the thrall of vags and drop our rags and
cleave to the best—not worst!
Each day on a town’s main-drag, as we’re
flaggin’ some house for prog,
The smile of a child or a maiden’s face will give