But the old man on the corner,
Bending over his cane like some tired warrior
Resting on a sword, peers at the crowd
With the smouldering disdain
Of a King whipped out of his domain.
For a moment he smiles uncertainly.
Then wears a look of frail sternness.
Musty, Rabelaisian odours stray
From this naïvely gilded family-entrance
And make the body of a vagrant