The poem
Past ash cans and alley cats, Fetid. overflowing gutters, Leprous lines of rancid flats Where the frowsy linen flutters; With a rattle and a jar, hark! I sing a happy ditty, As I speed my Master far From the poison of the City.
Speed him to the sportive sea, Watch him walloping the briny, Light his pipe and brew his tea In a little wood that's piny; Haven him to peace of mind. Drowsy dreams in pleasant places, Where the woman's eyes are kind, And the men have ruddy faces.
Just a jaloppy am I, But he's always been my lover, So each Sunday morn I try Youthful joy to re-discover. For he loves the wild and free, And though he would never know it, Nature thrills him with the glee And the rapture of the poet.
He's a little invoice clerk, I'm a worn and ancient flivver; I have an asthmatic spark, He an alcoholic liver; Yet with clatter, clang and creak We are lyrical for one day; Then another loathly week, Living for another Sunday.