"There are no houses in the Town,"
Said Mr. Smith (of Smith and Brown);
I hardly like to put it down,
But that's what he asserted;
So thereupon I went to Anne
And told her of my brilliant plan,
Which is, to purchase from a man
A furniture-removal van,
And have the thing converted.
Within that mobile villa gay
We shall not choose, though gipsies may,
Through country lanes and woods to stray,
Not likely. We shall enter
An up-to-date Bohemian lot,
And, if you read _The Daily Rot_,
You'll find it has observed us (what?)
Proceeding at a smartish trot
Through London's throbbing centre.
And there will be some curious stirs,
Unless my fancy greatly errs,
At restaurants and theatres
When our distinctive turn-out
Lines up with all the others there,
And we look out with quite an air
And order the commissionaire
Kindly to put the little stair
That hangs behind the stern out.
And, when at nights our prancing team
(I have before me now a scheme
To use auxiliary steam)
Desires to seek its stable,
Why, John--I have not mentioned John;
He is the man who sits upon
The front of the Pantechnicon--
Will take them off. And when they're gone,
And hush succeeds to Babel,
We'll rest within our home complete
Wherever seems to us most sweet,
And none shall say that such a street
Or such a square is pleasant,
But we shall answer straightway, "Yes,
We used to live at that address;
Quite jolly. But we liked it less.
Than opposite the Duke of S.
In Amaranthine Crescent."
But if in wandering to and fro
We chance to see--you never know--
One house that has "TO LET" to show
And find report has tricked us,
And there _are_ houses in the Town,
We'll simply dump our chattels down
And challenge Smith (of Smith and Brown)
Or any landlord, bar the Crown,
To blooming well evict us.