(Apologies to William Blake)
The Tyger (of the Street)
TYGER, tyger, churning cheat
In the markets on the Street,
What immortal hand or eye
Could tame thy fearful charlatry?
In what distant marlbed hall
Quench the fire of thy gall?
Or what light bare thy grime?
What the hand dare break thy slime?
And what debate and what art
Could chain the av’rice of thy heart?
And when thy heart skipped a beat,
What dread hand dare break the Street?
What the tyger? what the prey?
And what point-less claws of clay?
What, a tyger? What a mouse,
Dingy dirty cringing louse!
With no teeth and with no claws
To drag thy prey to thy jaws,
With no fangs to tear the meat,
What Joe Mainstreet would thee eat?
Trader, trader, lurking leech
In the markets do thee creep,
Supping on red toiled blood
Wriggling, squirming in the mud.