I hang about the streets all day,
At night I hang about;
I sleep a little when I may,
But rise betimes the morning's scout.
My clothes are worn to threads and loops;
My skin shows here and there ;
About my face like seaweed droops
My tangled beard, my tangled hair.
I move from eastern wretchedness
Through Fleet Street and the Strand;
And as the pleasant people press
I touch them softly with my hand.
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