And he mutters, “With cowl and with scythe and wing,
He might lord it in Death’s own Valley.”
He sees a roof-rotten, muck-sodden den,
To the gutter ready to tumble.
Says he, “Well, if this be the dwelling of men,
We haven’t much reason to grumble.”
Then steps he into a “tenement-house,”
Through a dark but doorless entry.
“Little need,” chuckles he, “for a lock or a key
Whilst my brace of friends stand sentry.”