One midday in the bus--the S-line was its ilk--I saw a little runt, a miserable milk--
Sop, voicing discontent, although around his turban
He had a plaited cord, this fancy-pants suburban.
Now hear what he complained of, this worm-metamorphosis
With disproportionate neck, suffering from halitosis:
--A citizen standing near him who'd come to man's estate
Was constantly refusing to circumnavigate
His toes, each time a chap got in the bus and rode,
Panting, and late for lunch, towards his chaste abode.
But scandal there was none; this sorry personage
Espied a vacant seat--made thither quick pilgrimage.
As I was going back toward the Latin Quarter
I saw him once again, this youth of milk-and-water.
And heard his foppish friend telling him with dispassion:
"The opening of your coat is not the latest fashion."