The Happy Journalist by Hilaire Belloc — Read

I love to walk about at night / By nasty lanes and corners foul, / All shielded from the unfriendly light / And independent as the owl.

By dirty grates I love to lurk; / I often stoop to take a squint / At printers working at their work.

I muse upon the rot they print.

The beggars please me, and the mud: / The editors beneath their lamps / As -- Mr. Howl demanding blood, / And Lord Retender stealing stamps,

And Mr. Bing instructing liars, / His elder son composing trash; / Beaufort (whose real name is Meyers) / Refusing anything but cash.

I like to think of Mr. Meyers, / I like to think of Mr. Bing.

I like to think about the liars: / It pleases me, that sort of thing.

Policemen speak to me, but I, / Remembering my civic rights, / Neglect them and do not reply.

I love to walk about at nights!

At twenty-five to four I bunch / Across a cab I can't afford.

I ring for breakfast after lunch.

I am as happy as a lord!