Gutters and splutters on the chair beside me,
Over two books and a letter; the crowd passing
Groans for reproach, confident in their numbers.
But I, long used to crowds and their cowardly ways,
Return these insults with the cold set eye
That break their corporate pride—
What? those are plays.
Yes, dramas by John Ford—Love’s Sacrifice,
The Broken Heart, ’Tis Pity she’s a Whore.
The titles shock? These things are “not convenient?”