But whatever may crash into cruisers
Or wherries when I am afloat,
When the waves have destroyed me like bruisers,
I call on my country to note,
If The Blare should pretend,
When I’ve passed to my end,
I was one of its constant perusers,
It lies in its throat.
To my tenantless rooms in the City
The rags have been sent, and it’s there