Wheeler advances to a door,
(A common thing on Britain's shore,)
I wonder why,
At once some aged man will stand
And stare until its inmates land,
As if enchained by something grand,
Or weird, or high.

I wonder why the powers that mend
The streets should root them up, and rend
The roads with giant pipes on end
And bricks awry,
Just when we turn to town again;
Though nothing stirred while West Cockayne
Lay waste--a huge, deserted lane--
I wonder why.

I wonder why athwart the Row
Stray loafers linger, loth to go
Past the mid-crossing, and are so
Resolved to die,
Hoping that, as you gallop near
You'll maul them by your mad career--
I wonder why.

I wonder why, when theatre Stalls,
Are "papered" by Professionals,
And children arch in Thespis' halls
Their gambols ply,
Why the Box-office has the face