Where the feculent tide of rich liquid manure
Now sickens the City, now maddens the Times?
Know ye the filth of that great open sink,
Which no filter can sweeten, no “navvy” can drink;
Where in boats overcrowded the Cockney is borne
To the mud-bounded gardens of joyous Cremorne;
Where the gas-works rain down the blackest of soot,
And the oath of the coal-whipper never is mute:
Where the liquified mud, which as “water” we buy,
With the richest of pea-soup in colour may vie,