Too fierce at wrong,
To patronize the dull,
Or praise the strong.

And yet he has a soul
Of wrath, though pent
Even when that white ghoul
Comes for his rent.

The landlord? Hush! My God!
I think the walls
Take notes to help him prod
Us up. He galls

My very soul to strife,
With his death's-head face.
He is foul too in his life,
Some hid disgrace,

Some secret thing he does,
I warrant you,
For all his cheek to us
Is shaved so blue.

He takes good care (by the shade
Of seven wives!)
That the undertaker's trade
He lives by thrives.

Nor chick nor child has he.