I saw him draped upon a post,
Like someone in a swoon.
His buttons gleamed what time the clouds
Released the troubled moon.
He gazed upon the changing sky,
A strange light in his dreamy eye.
"Now, haste thee, cop!" I called aloud,
And seized him by the arm.
"There is a wretch without my house
Who bodes my treasure harm.". . . .
Toward the sky he waved a hand
And answered, "Ain't that background grand?"
"Nay, gentle John," said I, "attend.
A thief my goods and gold
Seeks to purloin. Go, seize the man
Before the trail is cold!"
"Those spires against the sky," said he,
"Surcharged with beauty are to me."
"I give the man in charge!" I cried,
"He is on evil bent!
He seeks of all its treasured art
To strip my tenement!"
He answered, as one in a dream,
"Ain't that a bonzer colour-scheme?
