Belgian, with cumbrous tread and iron boots, <br />Who in the murky middle of the night, <br />Designing to renew the foul pursuits <br />In which thy life is passed, ill-favoured wight, <br />And wishing on the platform to alight <br />Where thou couldst mingle with thy fellow brutes, <br />Didst walk the carriage floor (a leprous sight), <br />As o'er the sky some baleful meteor shoots: <br />Upon my slippered foot thou didst descend, <br />Didst rouse me from my slumbers mad with pain, <br />And laughedst loud for several minutes' space. <br />Oh may'st thou suffer tortures without end: <br />May fiends with glowing pincers rend thy brain, <br />And beetles batten on thy blackened face!<br /><br />James Kenneth Stephen<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/4th-july-1882-malines-midnight/
