Shamed the still air about it, or obscured
Its every view. Is it to be endured,
O much-enduring Briton? There be those
Who'd scrawl advertisements of Hogs or Hose
Across the sun-disc as it flames at noon,
Or daub the praise of Pickles o'er the moon.
Unmoved by civic pride, unchecked by taste,
They 'd smear the general sky with poster's paste
And at Dan Phoebus seem to "take a sight."
Colossal bottles blot the air, to tell