It was all the porter's fault, not mine,
But his mind is narrow, his brain is bleak,
His slowness and red tape combine
To make him take about a week
To label my bag—and he dared to speak,
When I bade him hurry, bad words, in fine!
O epithet all incarnadine,
Leave, leave the lips of the working-man!
It is simply past
All bounds—aghast