THE MOUNTEBANK CRITICIZES
I lose all sense of profiles,
Strolling through your greys and blacks and browns!
No man bestows his orange robe
Soberly upon your uncoloured pavements,
Rebuking life for being death.
No woman taunts her sorrows
With a coloured haughtiness.
When you take to colours, you are ashamed,
Like pages nibbling at a pilfered tart.