Is distant now, and dull; for 'tis November,
And we are in a Fog!
Cabbin' it, Council? Ah! each absent Member
May be esteemed a vastly lucky dog!
The streets are up—of course! No Irish bog
Is darker, deeper, dirtier than that hole
Sp-nc-r is staring into. On my soul,
M-rl-y, we want that light you're seeking, swarming
Up that lank lamp-post in a style alarming!
Take care, my John, you don't come down a whopper!