A Square, Squat Room (A Cellar On Promotion), Drab To The Soul, Drab To The Very Daylight; Plasters Astray In Unnatural-Looking Tinware; Scissors And Lint And Apothecary'S Jars. Here, On A Bench A Skeleton Would Writhe From, Angry And Sore, I Wait To Be Admitted: Wait Till My Heart Is Lead Upon My Stomach, While At Their Ease Two Dressers Do Their Chores. One Has A Probe - It Feels To Me A Crowbar. A Small Boy Sniffs And Shudders After Bluestone. A Poor Old Tramp Explains His Poor Old Ulcers. Life Is (I Think) A Blunder And A Shame.