The poem
God's truth! these be the bitter times. In vain I sing my sheaf of rhymes, And hold my battered hat for dimes.
And then a copper collars me, Barking: "It's begging that you be; Come on, dad; you're in custody."
And then the Beak looks down and says: "Sheer doggerel I deem your lays: I send you down for seven days."
So for the week I won't disturb The peace by singing at the curb. I don't mind that, but oh it's hell To have my verse called doggerel.