(By a Long-way-after-a-Fellow-Poet.)
The shades of night were falling fast,
When through a western suburb passed
A man who bore upon his back
A placard, with this word in black—
"OZOKERIT."
His brow was dark, his eye beneath
Gleamed like a lantern o'er his teeth,
Which gnashing ceaselessly he sung
That fragment of an unknown tongue—