That nobody dared to answer me.
So on from street to street I strode:
And you can’t conceive how vastly odd
The butchers looked: a roseate crew,
Inshrined in stalls, with naught to do:
While some on a bench, half dozing, sat,
And the sacred cows were not more fat.
Still posed to think what all this scene
Of sinecure trade was meant to mean,
“And pray,” asked I, “by whom is paid