And here and there a sewer.

By fetid bank, impure and rank,

I swirl a loathsome river;

For men may write, and men may talk,

But I'll reek on for ever.

I grew, I glode, I slipped, I slode,

My pride I left behind me;

I left it in my pure abode—

Now take me as you find me.

For black as ink, from many a sink,