Button-'oler and Bond Street, old pal, that's yer fair top-row sarmple for fun!
Wy, we git all the best of the country in London, with dollups chucked in.
Rush in herby!—ascuse the Hitalian!—Ah, mate, ony wish I'd the tin;
I'd take 'em a trot, and no flounders! It's 'ard, bloomin' 'ard, my dear boy,
When form as is form ain't no fling, as a German ud say, fo der quoy.
I'd make Mister Ruskin sit up, and the rest of the 'owlers see snakes,
With their rot about old Mother Nature, as never don't make no mistakes.
Yah! Nature's a fraud and a fizzle, that is if yer can't fake her out
With the taste of a man about town, ony sort as knows wot he 's about.
Well, London's all yum-yum jest now. Hexhibitions all hover the shop,