I tell yer it keeps one a-movin'. I'm on the perpetual 'op,
Like the prince. Aitch har aitch is a stayer, a fair royal Rowell, I say.
(I landed a quid on that "Mix," but I carnt git the beggar to pay.)
"Inventories" open, you know. Rayther dry, but the extrys O.K.
It's the extrys, I 'old, make up life, arf the pleasure and most o' the pay.
Yus, princes and painters, philanterpists, premiers and patriots may gush,
But wot ud become of their shows if it weren't for the larks and the lush?
Lor bless yer, dear boy, picter galleries, balls, sandwich sworries and all,—
It's fun and the fizz makes 'em go, not the picter, the speech or the squall.
Keep yer eye on the buffet's my maxim, look out for the "jam" and the laugh,