And hang with barges under Battersea,
Will press past Wapping with decaying cats,
And the dead dog shall bear it company;
Small bathing boys shall feel its clammy prod,
And think some jellyfish has fled the surge;
And so 'twill win to where the tribe of cod
In its own ooze intones a fitting dirge,
And after that some false and impious fish
Will likely have it for a breakfast dish."
The morning dawned. The tide had stripped the shore;