'Tis a way they are prone to in many a place,
And they do it without any feeling.
They move without noise, and they thus get the pull,
Like a cab with a new rubber tyre on;
For their feet, it is said, are a compound of wool,
Though the hands that they strike with are iron.
The vision appals me, one glimpse is enough;
With terror my bosom is heaving.
Yet I venture the hint—do not treat it as stuff—
That steel were more suited for thieving.