My palate quite hot is, my larynx and glottis feel like an Augean Sahara,
I'm frantic with drouth, and the taste in my mouth is a mixed Malebolge and Marah.
The water-carts come; but they're only a hum, for the sun and the wind dry it up again,
And then on manure in a powder impure the pedestrian's fated to sup again.
It's worse than a circus. If men from the "Vorkus" were turned on to keep it well swept up,
There might be improvement. But there's no such movement; the dire thorax-torture is kept up.
Manure-desiccation sets up irritation and then inflammation will follow,
Your tonsils get red, you've a pain in your head, and you find it a labour to swallow.
And as to your nose!—well, I do not suppose for that organ reformers feel pity,
Or I really can't think every species of stink would find such ready home in the City.