I The Comic

There was then no neutral snigger,
No standing clear
From skin, to sneer
At the fun-figure,
The fumblings,
The midget humblings
That sear,
That comfort here.

Minutely charted woe
Invests my wall,
And when I fall
Tears into guineas grow,
Loathing to luckiness.
These posturings possess
More mastered gall
Than tragedians bawl.