Immune from fraud's accustomed penalties,
Sells me a stuff compound of string and lead,
And has the nerve to name the substance bread.
But deafer far to the voice of conscience grown
The type that cuts me off a pound of bone
Wherefrom an ounce of fat forlornly drops,
And calls the thing two shillings' worth of chops;
More steeped in crime the heart that dares to fleece
My purse of eighteen-pence for one small piece
Of tripe, whereof, when times were not so hard,