From the door of the jail to the till of a store
There is simply one pace unto you, and no more;
As the dog to his vomit, the sow to her mire,
You will glide, the born slave of your fiendish desire;
By my oath, it’s a sin, a disgrace, and a shame;
With your shoulders so broad, and so robust your frame,
With your arms like a Hercules, muscled and strong,
With your wind like a stag-hound’s, so perfect and long,
To earn a support you’re possessed of all means—
And yet you’ve been stealing a box of sardines.