But small pretence, passed every half an hour
By omnibuses musical with cads
Who’d set us down at our own door. At noon
We’d dig our early brocoli, and wonder
How the slave trade could flourish, while the heavens
Send down such loads of blacks. We’d have no friends
That were not jolly, no ambition save
How to make both ends meet. We’d keep no book,
’Cause we’d pay ready cash that we might smile
To think how thoroughly long Christmas bills