The Bench Of Boors


In bed I muse on Tenier's boors,
Embrowned and beery losels all;
      A wakeful brain
      Elaborates pain:
Within low doors the slugs of boors
Laze and yawn and doze again.
In dreams they doze, the drowsy boors,
Their hazy hovel warm and small:
      Thought's ampler bound
      But chill is found:
Within low doors the basking boors
Snugly hug the ember-mound.
Sleepless, I see the slumberous boors
Their blurred eyes blink, their eyelids fall:
      Thought's eager sight
Within low doors the boozy boors
Cat-naps take in pipe-bowl light.


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