And so he runs his stage. “Sold up,” he shifts
Into the shafts of jaunty hansom cab,
With fare inside, and driver perch’d aloft;
His early vigour gone, a shower of blows
Are rain’d on his shrunk back; his wind is bad
And he has turned a “piper” and oftimes
Loudly whistles in his sound. The next phase ends
His cruel and unpitied destiny;
To Knacker’s yard for slaughter he is led,
Sans eyes, sans hoofs, mere carcase—fit for dogs.