The Bench of Boors

In bed I muse on Tenier’s boors,

Embrowned and beery losels all:

A wakeful brain

Elaborates pain:

Within low doors the slugs of boors

Laze and yawn and doze again.

In dreams they doze, the drowsy boors,

Their hazy hovel warm and small:

Thought’s ampler bound

But chill is found:

Within low doors the basking boors

Snugly hug the ember-mound.

Sleepless, I see the slumberous boors

Their blurred eyes blink, their eyelids fall:

Thought’s eager sight

Aches—overbright!

Within low doors the boozy boors

Cat-naps take in pipe-bowl light.