THE LAY OF THE LAST LODGER

Oh dreary, dreary, dreary me!

My jaw is sore with yawning—

I'm weary of the dreary sea,

With its roaring beach

Where sea-gulls screech,

And shrimpers shrimp,

And limpets limp,

And winkles wink,

And trousers shrink;

And the groaning, moaning, droning tide

Goes splashing and dashing from side to side,

With all its might, from morn to night,

And from night to morning's dawning.

II.

The shore's a flood of puddly mud,

And the rocks are limy and slimy—

And I've tumbled down with a thud—good lud!—

And I fear I swore,

For something tore;

And my shoes are full

Of the stagnant pool;

And hauling, sprawling, crawling crabs

Have got in my socks with starfish and dabs;

And my pockets are swarming with polypes and prawns,

And noisome beasts with shells and horns,

That scrunch and scrape, and goggle and gape,

Are up my sleeve, I firmly believe—

And I'm horribly rimy and grimy.

III.

I'm sick of the strand, and the sand, and the band,

And the niggers and jiggers and dodgers;

And the cigars of rather doubtful brand;

And my landlady's "rights",

And the frequent fights

On wretched points

Of ends of joints,

Which disappear, with my brandy and beer,

In a way that, to say the least, is queer.

And to mingle among the throng I long,

And to poke my joke and warble my song—

But there's no one near

On sands or pier,

For everyone's gone and I'm left alone,

The Last of the Seaside Lodgers!

Note by Our Man Out of Town—Watering places—resorts where the visitor is pumped dry.