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Poor naked wretches, wheresoe’er you are,
That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm,
.How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides,
Your loop’d and window’d raggedness, defend you
.From seasons such as these?

                                     -  King Lear III, iv, 28-32

Paint me a rub a dub dub at dockside,
A poor bloke all Brahms and Liszt
Staggering toward some insubstantial
’Orizon swirling in the mist,

A child of scorn and fortune’s waif
With orsons thund’ring from ’is gut,
The tangled barnet on ’is crust
’Osting lice and ’oo knows what,

’Ampsteads clenched on a rotten lardy,
Reeking of Riddick and despair,
Strides all pen and ink with jimmy,
More than a bit the worse for wear.

And then, without a dicky bird
That might articulate his funk,
’E ’eaded for the apples and pears
And disappeared. I ’eard the plunk,

Ran for a butcher’s. Not a vestige.
Adam and Eve me, honest friend,
’Tis sad to see a noble creature
Reduced to such a dismal end.