London Types: Sandwich-Man

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 causal 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!