Bourke Street

As I went over Bourke street,
   Where gleaming windows guard their lure,
A natty man I chanced to meet
   Whose mien was furtive and unsure.
His pearl hat had a raffish tip,
   His roving eyes on purse and bag
Gaezed carelessly; and from his lip
   Miraculously drooped a fag.

His supple fingers, shaped for spoil,
   He massaged gently as he went --
Slim, restless fingers trained to toil
   For one of predatory bent.
And e'er those eyes, to north to south
   Slid evilly s greeting came,
Soft, from the corner of his mouth:
            "Chay!  'Ow's the game?"