Some public-house in mean and low street,
And drink—till haled before the Beak
Who patiently presides at Bow Street.
I will not throw—as others throw—
My manly form, without compunction,
Before the frequent trains that go
At lightning speed through Clapham Junction.
For though my spirit seeks escape
From all the carking cares that vex it,
I will not plunge thee into crape