The streets that once I knew the best.
Yet when the plates, of varied size,
With hunger-stirring symphonies
Resound, I think—“A nice grilled bone!”
And sigh that all my money’s gone.
My friends now pass me, cut me dead;
I’m only happy when in bed;
I cannot get more “whisker-dye”
Without committing felony.
My creditors, with angry wail,