I'm dead filberts, my boy, on the river, it ain't to be beat for a lark.
And the gals as goes boating, my pippin, is jest about "'Arry, his mark."
If you want a good stare, you can always run into 'em—accident quite!
And they carn't charge yer nothink for looking, nor put you in quod for the fright.
'Ow we chivied the couples a-spoonin', and bunnicked old fishermen's swims,
And put in a Tommy Dodd Chorus to Methodys practisin' hymns!
Then we pic-nic'd at last on the lawn of a waterside willa. Oh, my!
When the swells see our bottles and bits, I've a notion some language'll fly.
It was on the Q. T., in a nook snugged away in a lot of old trees,
I sat on a bust of Apoller, with one of the gurls on my knees!