"Them tortured clouds agen the moon,"
The foolish cop pursued,
"Remind me of some Whistler thing;
But I prefer the nood."
Said I, "Arrest this man of vice!"
Said he, "The nood is very nice."
"My pants," cried I, "unguarded lie
Beside my peaceful couch—
My second-best pair, with the stripes,
Red gold within their pouch!
Thieves! Murder! Burglars! Fire!" cried I.
Sighed he, "Oh, spires against the sky!"
Then, in my pink pyjamas clad,
I danced before his eyes.
In anger impotent I sought
His ear with savage cries.
He pushed me from him with a moan.
"Go 'way!" he said. "You're out of tone."
"Why do I pay my rates?" I yelled—
"The wages that you draw!
Come, I demand, good cop, demand
Protection from the law!"
"You're out of drorin', too," said he.
"Still, s'pose I'd better go an' see."
