But London's good City a poet possesses
Who sings its high deeds and its glory expresses,
And graces its banquets, his brows bound with myrtle,
Sucking up inspiration together with turtle.
That Poet—whose aim is existence to sweeten—
Next day sings the praises of what he has eaten,
Which by wholesale are bought by the rich Corporation
As the fairest account of the jollification.
At eighty-five, Fleet Street, this son of Apollo
Indites, each November, the Song of the Swallow;