Sitting On The Top Of The 'Bus, I Bite My Pipe And Look At The Sky. Over My Shoulder The Smoke Streams Out And My Life With It. "Conservation Of Energy," You Say. But I Burn, I Tell You, I Burn; And The Smoke Of Me Streams Out In A Vanishing Skein Of Grey. Crash And Bump ... My Poor Bruised Body! I Am A Harp Of Twittering Strings, An Elegant Instrument, But Infinitely Second-Hand, And If I Have Not Got Phthisis It Is Only An Accident. Droll Phenomena!