Smells of Steaks in Passageways. I like this poem considerably. I've got into the habit of wandering round the passageways off Fleet Street and Farringdon Road when the office sends me out on a job. I like looking down into the basements and seeing a printer's devil like myself drinking a cup of orange coloured tea. The old men with their red noses and greasy bowler hats look as if they were made of something other than flesh and blood -- brown paper and melted down string, I should think."
A Boy at the Hogarth Press Richard Kennedy