He's called The General from the brazen craft <br />And dash with which he sneaks a bit of road <br />And all its fares; challenged, or chafed, or chaffed, <br />Back-answers of the newest he'll explode; <br />He reins his horses with an air; he treats <br />With scoffing calm whatever powers there be; <br />He gets it straight, puts a bit on, and meets <br />His losses with both lip and £ s. d.; <br />He arrogates a special taste in short; <br />Is loftily grateful for a flagrant smoke; <br />At all the smarter housemaids winks his court, <br />And taps them for half-crowns; being stoney-broke, <br />Lives lustily; is ever on the make; <br />And hath, I fear, none other gods but Fake.<br /><br />William Ernest Henley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/london-types-bus-driver/
