Here, full of people Going somewhere or nowhere, Either hustling for connections Or loitering with a Tennant's Or the old dear collecting for terminal patients, Here I find in the formaldehyde Of damp yellow light one dwelling thing That needs neither ticket nor vending machine: Moss, like a comic moustache That's slipped from above a bank clerk's grin And counts us rattling out and in, The loose change in the collector's tin.