Two orange boys stand in the street with a whistle
One deep in thought, the other gazing at the crowd.
A friendly arm hangs across his shoulders, allowed
Because they are well acquainted and dismissal
Or rebuttal is hardly probable. Just then
An old woman, flustered by some unknown trouble
Passes by, something odd concealed like a bubble
Under her headshawl, like some tragic comedienne
In a strange costume. Meanwhile, behind the two boys
Appears a dour and conspicuous gentleman
Who, with funereal and mysterious poise
Deigns to cast his gaze knowingly the other way.
Whether he hatches some kind of devious plan,
Or if it’s just his face’s shape, is hard to say.