An' Wooster sorce yer vittles, that's supposin' as yer've got any?
Then think of them pore millionaires wot misses the delight
Of 'avin' 'ad no breakfast on a roarin' happytite.
Then money! I Think, Elizer, of them cruel stocks and shares
Wot makes their lives a torter to them martyred millionaires
Oh, ain't we much more appy when the sticks is up the spout
An' the kids is wantin' dinner and 'as got ter go without?
And don't it make yer 'eart bleed, too, to think of all the care
Of mansions in the country and an 'ouse in Grosvenor Square?
Ah, what would them pore fellers give if honly they could come