Lemon is a little hipped,
And this is Lemon’s true position—
He is not pale, he’s not white-lipped,
Yet wants a little fresh condition.
Sweeter ’tis to gaze upon
Old Ocean’s rising, falling billers,
Than on the Houses every one
That form the street called Saint Anne’s Willers!
Oh my Lemon, round and fat,
Oh my bright, my right, my tight ’un,
Think a little what you’re at—
Don’t stay at home, but come to Brighton! |
Lemon has a coat of frieze,
But all so seldom Lemon wears it,
That it is a prey to fleas,
And ev’ry moth that’s hungry, tears it.
Oh, that coat’s the coat for me,
That braves the railway sparks and breezes,
Leaving ev’ry engine free
To smoke it, till its owner sneezes!
Then my Lemon, round and fat,
L., my bright, my right, my tight ’un,
Think a little what you’re at—
On Tuesday first, come down to Brighton!
T. Sparkler. |