Far out of bounds he'd figured-in a race <br />Of West-End traffic pitching to his loss. <br />But if you'd see him in his proper place, <br />Making the browns for bub and grub and doss, <br />Go East among the merchants and their men, <br />And where the press in noisiest, and the tides <br />Of trade run highest and widest, there and then <br />You shall behold him, edging with equal strides <br />Along the kerb; hawking in either hand <br />Some artful nothing made of twine and tin, <br />Cardboard and foil and bits of rubber band: <br />Some penn'orth of wit-in-fact that, with a grin, <br />The careful City marvels at, and buys <br />For nurselings in the Suburbs to despise!<br /><br />William Ernest Henley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/london-types-hawker/
