Dombey and Son
The shrillness of the English language
and Oliver’s dejected look
have merged: I see the youngster languish
among a pile of office books.
Charles Dickens — ask him; he will tell you
what was in London long ago:
the City, Dombey, assets’ value,
the River Thames’s rusty flow.
‘Mid rain and tears and counted money,
Paul Dombey’s curly-haired son
cannot believe that clerks are funny
and laughs at neither joke nor pun.
The office chairs are sorry splinters;
each broken farthing put to use,
and numbers swarm in springs and winters,
like bees perniciously let loose.
Attorneys study every letter;
in smoke and stench they hone their stings,
and, from a noose, the luckless debtor —
a piece of bast — in silence swings.
His foes enjoy their lawful robbing,
lost are for him all earthly boons,
and lo! His only daughter, sobbing,
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