And you'll collar the pick o' the basket, the rest is all sordust and chaff.
That's philosophy, Charlie, my pippin; the parsons and prigs may demur,
But if you would foller their tip, wy, you'll 'ave to go thundering fur.
Ah! "May, merry May!" up in town, fills your snide 'un as full as he'll carry
Of laughter and lotion. That's gospel to toffs and yours scrumptiously,
'Arry.
