THE CAD'S CALENDAR
January.
January! Tailor's bill comes in.
Blow that blooming snip! I'm short o' tin.
Werry much enjoyed my Autumn caper,
But three quid fifteen do look queer paper.
Want another new rig out, wuss luck,
Gurl at Boodle's bar seems awful struck,
Like to take her to the pantermime;
That and oysters after would be prime.
Fan's a screamer; this top coat would blue it,
Yaller at the seams, black ink won't do it.
Wonder if old snip would spring another?
Boots, too, rayther seedy; beastly bother!
Lots o' larks that empty pockets "queer."
Can't do much on fifty quid a year.
February.
Febrywary! High old time for sprees!
Now's yer chance the gals to please or tease,
Dowds to guy and pooty ones to wheedle,
And to give all rival chaps the needle.
Crab your enemies,—I've got a many,
You can pot 'em proper for a penny.
My! Them walentines do 'it 'em 'ot.
Fust-rate fun; I always buy a lot.
Prigs complain they're spiteful,
Lor' wot stuff!
I can't ever get 'em strong enough.
Safe too; no one twigs your little spree,
If you do it on the strict Q. T.
If you're spoons, a flowery one's your plan.
Mem: I sent a proper one to Fan.
March.
March! I'm nuts upon a windy day,
Gurls do git in such a awful way.
Petticoats yer know, and pooty feet;
Hair all flying—tell you it's a treat.
Pancake day. Don't like 'em—flabby, tough,
Rayther do a pennorth o' plum-duff.
Seediness shows up as Spring advances,
Ah! the gurls do lead us pretty dances.
Days a-lengthening.
Think I spotted Fan
Casting sheep's eyes at another man.
Quarter-day, too, no more chance of tick.
Fancy I shall 'ave to cut my stick.
Got the doldrums dreadful, that is clear.
Two d. left—must go and do a beer.
April.
April! All Fools' Day's a proper time.
Cop old gurls and guy old buffers prime.
Scissors! don't they goggle and look blue
When you land them with a regular "do"?
Lor! the world would not be worth a mivvey
If there warn't no fools to cheek and chivy.
Then comes Easter. Got some coin in 'and,
Trot a bonnet out and do the grand.
Fan all flounce and flower; fellows mad
Heye us henvious; nuts to me, my lad.
'Ampstead! 'Ampton! Which is it to be?
Fan—no flat—prefers the Crystal P.
Nobby togs, high jinks, and lots o' lotion,
That's the style to go it, I've a notion!
May.
May! The month o' flowers. Spooney sell!
"Rum 'ot with," is wot I likes to smell.
Beats yer roses holler. A chice weed
Licks all flowers that ever run to seed.
Nobby button'oler very well
When one wants to do the 'eavy swell;
Otherwise don't care not one brass farden,
For the best ever blowed in Covent Garden.
Fan, though, likes 'em, cost a pretty pile,
Rayther stiff, a tanner for a smile.
Blued ten bob last time I took 'er out,
Left my silver ticker up the spout.
Women are sech sharks! If I don't drop 'er.
Guess that I shall come a hawful cropper!
June.
June! A jolly month; sech stunning weather.
Fan and I have lots of outs together:
Rorty on the river, sech prime 'unts,
Foul the racers, run into the punts.
Prime to 'ear the anglers rave and cuss,
When in quiet "swims" we raise a muss.
Snack on someone's lawn upon the quiet.
Won't the owner raise a tidy riot
When he twigs our scraps and broken bottles?
Cheaper this than rustyrongs or hottles,
Whitsuntide 'ud be a lot more gay
If it warn't so near to quarter-day.
Snip turns sour, pulls "county-courting" faces.
Must try and land a little on the races.
July.
'Ot July! Just nicked a handy fiver
(Twenty-five to one on old "Screw-driver"!)
New rig-out. This mustard colour mixture
Suits me nobby. Fan appears a fixture.
Gurls like style, you know, and colour ketches 'em,
But good show of ochre,—that's what fetches 'em,
Wimbledon! I'm not a Wolunteer.
Discipline don't suit this child—no fear!
But we 'ave fine capers at the camp,
Proper, but for that confounded scamp:
Punched my 'ead because I guyed his shooting.
Fan I fancied rather 'ighfaluting;
Ogled the big beggar as he propped me.
Would 'a licked 'im if she 'adn't stopped me.
August.
August! Time to think about my outing.
No dibs yet, though, so it's no use shouting.
Make the best of the Bank 'Oliday.
Fan "engaged"! Don't look too bloomin' gay,
Drop into the bar to do a beer,
Twig her talking to that Volunteer.
Sling my 'ook instanter sharp and short,
Took Jemimer down to 'Ampton Court.
Not 'arf bad, that gurl. Got rather screwed,
Little toff complained as I was rude.
'It 'im in the wind, he went like death;
Weak, consumptive cove and short o' breath.
Licked 'im proper, dropped 'im like a shot,—
Only wish that Fan had seen that lot.
September.
'Ere's September! 'Oliday at last!
Off to Margit—mean to go it fast.
Mustard-coloured togs still fresh as paint,
Like to know who's natty, if I ain't.
Got three quid; have cried a go with Fan,
Game to spend my money like a man.
But sticking tight to one gal ain't no fun—
Here's no end of prime 'uns on the run;
Carn't resist me somehow, togs and tile
All A 1—make even swell ones smile.
Lor! if I'd the ochre, make no doubt
I could cut no end of big pots out.
Call me cad? When money's in the game,
Cad and swell are pooty much the same.
October.
Now October! Back again to collar,
Funds run low, reduced to last 'arf-dollar.
Snip on rampage, boots a getting thin,
'Ave to try the turf to raise some tin.
Evenings getting gloomy; high old games;
Music 'alls! Look up the taking names.
Proper swells them pros.! If I'd my choice,
There's my mark. Just wish I'd got a voice;
Cut the old den to-morrow, lots of cham.,
Cabs and diamonds,—ain't that real jam?
Got the straight tip for the Siezerwitch,
If I honly land it, I'll be rich.
Guess next mornin' wouldn't find me sober—
Allays get the blues about October.
November.
Dull November! Didn't land that lot.
Fear my father's son is going to pot.
Fan jest passed me, turned away 'er eyes,
Guess she ranked me with the other guys,
Nobby larks upon the ninth, my joker;
But it queers a chap to want the ochre.
Nothing like a crowd for regular sprees,
Ain't it fine to do a rush, and squeeze?
Twig the women fainting! Oh, it's proper!
Bonnet buffers when the blooming copper
Can't get near yer nohow. Then the fogs!
Rare old time for regular jolly dogs.
If a chap's a genuine 'ot member,
He can keep the game up in November!
December.
Dun December! Dismal, dingy, dirty.
Still short commons—makes a chap feel shirty.
Snip rampageous, drops a regular summons.
Fan gets married; ah! them gurls is rum 'uns!
After all the coin I squandered on 'er!
Want it now. A 'eap too bad, 'pon honour,
Snow! Ah, that's yer sort, though, and no error.
Treat to twig the women scud in terror.
Hot 'un in the eye for that old feller;
Cold 'un down 'is neck, bust his umbreller.
Ha! ha! Then Christmas,—'ave a jolly feast!
The boss will drop a tip,—hope so, at least.
If I don't land some tin, my look-out's queer.
Well, let's drink, boys—"Better luck next year!"
