My eyes may never see the shape of Pott
Planting his fish down, then methinks it's rum
That mortal men should move and be forgot
By those that serve their household daily, some
Sending the right delivery, some not.
Full often on my homeward way I pause
Where Jones is standing at his shop-front trim;
We pass remarks about the nation's laws
And how it still keeps up, though skies are grim;
And Jones is most polite to me, because