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SIM.

Sim is silent and cunning of tread
And a planner
Of plots, with a manner
Of turning his head
Round behind him, as if the police on his track,
As is usual, now were quite close at his back;
He is furtive and foxy
And hates orthodoxy
And sunshine, and lives in the shade
With his tools;
For his trade
Is a burglar's, and not taught in schools.
Sim is sleek and well groomed for the slums,
And when smiling
Displays his beguiling
White teeth to the gums;
Like a dog with resilient lips, that intends
Blood and murder, if weakness unheeding offends;

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He was first quite respectable
With a delectable
Birth as a butler, till fate
Turned his tune,
And one June
He made off with the jewels and plate.
Sim is surly at seasons, if grist
Or the plunder
Runs short from a blunder,
And free with his fist;
But he's never himself without something on hand,
Like a job in the country judiciously plann'd;
Ah, with danger he rises,
He dreads no surprises;
He's greatest when “cracking up cribs”
Or a life,
With his knife
In some troublesome gentleman's ribs.
Sim has one tender spot for his boy
Whom he hives for
In darkness, and strives for
With perilous joy;
And the child whom he shields, growing fairer with time,
Never dreams his rich blessings are purchased with crime;
While the father keeps toiling
At evil, and soiling
His soul for the beautiful child;
While he spins,
Out of sins,
All the garments so dear and defil'd.