Robin Hood Checks into the Ritz The far-too-clean-and-pretty bellhop boy Sniffs my ratty burlap bag, grimaces, Then drags it like a sack of dung away. Myself, I lift an overlooked portmanteau. Some earl or duke will miss it, yes, but not Until the cocktail hour. Pity him the missing Party dress and tux and favors. Ah, pity Prince John’s nouveau riche, and the nouveau poor, And pity, too, this unctuous bellhop boy Who practices pretense at my door, the hand Soiled by my bag now held before my nose. He’s a zealous lad, indeed, but he’s run out Of luck. Who serves the...