An Ill March Noon; The Flagstones Gray With Dust; An All-Round East Wind Volleying Straws And Grit; St. Martin'S Steps, Where Every Venomous Gust Lingers To Buffet, Or Sneap, The Passing Cit; And In The Gutter, Squelching A Rotten Boot, Draped In A Wrap That, Modish Ten-Year Syne, Partners, Obscene With Sweat And Grease And Soot, A Horrible Hat, That Once Was Just As Fine; The Drunkard'S Mouth A-Wash For Something Drinkable, The Drunkard'S Eye Alert For Casual Toppers, The Drunkard'S Neck Stooped To A Lot Scarce Thinkable, A Living, Crawling Blazoning Of Hot-Coppers, He Trails His Mildews Towards A Kingdom-Come Compact Of Sausage-And-Mash And Two-O'-Rum!