O what can ail thee, Agent B,
Alone and palely loitering?
The pubs are tightly closed and barred;
     No stake-out-ing.

I met my partner at HQ,
Ex-copper, not of temper mild;
His hair was long, his feet were large,     
     And his green eyes wild.

I shoved him into the Capri,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sideways would he lean and sing
     A ribald song.

He bought me beer, and fish and chips,
Fine single malt, and Swiss rolls too,
And sure in language plain he said,
     "I fancy you!"

He took me to his grotty flat,
And there we boozed till almost four,
And there we had it off (and on)
     Till we were sore.

I dreamed pale birds and fellers too,
Pale slashers, death-pale were they all,
Who cried: "Le Beau Doyle Sans Merci
     "Hath thee in thrall!"

"How can I kip!" he snarled in wrath,
"With you sleep-talkin' mangled Keats?"
He chucked me out, and here I am
     In the angst-cold streets.

And that is why you find me here,
Alone and palely loiterin'.
"3.7!" That's his R/T now:
     "Oi! Get back in!"


(Anticipating popular demand, I will refrain from working on "Le Beau Doyle Sans Murphy".)