The cut of these bags, sir, beats Poole out of fits. (Are yer fly to the pun?)
And this gridiron pattern in treacle and mustard is something uneek,
As the girls—but there, Charlie, you know me, and so there's no call for to speak.
My merstach is a coming on proper—that fetches 'em, Charlie, my boy;
Though one on 'em called me young spiky, which doubtless was meant to annoy.
But, bless yer! 'twas only a touch of the green-eyed, 'acos I looked sweet
On a tidy young parcel in pink as 'ung out in the very same street.
O Charlie, such larks as I'm 'aving. To toddle about on the sands,
And watch the blue beauties a-bathing, and spot the sick muffs as they lands,
Awful flabby and white in the gills, and with hoptics so sheepishly sad,