That it takes rayther more than a judge or a jury to tell yer wot's wot.
Whether knifing a boy 'cos one's peckish means murder if lyings are libels,
Seem questions as bothers the big wigs, in spite of their blue books and Bibles.
Where are we, old pal? that's the question. Perhaps it would add to one's ease
If life wos declared a "mixed wobble," it's motter a "go as you please."
But 'tisn't all cinder-path, Charlie, wus luck! if it was, with "all in,"
You wouldn't go fur wrong, I fancy, in backing "yours truly" to win.
"A 'Appy New Year!" That's the cackle all over the shop like to-day.
Wot's 'Appiness? Praps Mister Ruskin and little Lord Garmoyle will say.
You an' me's got our notions of yum-yum, as isn't fur wide o' the mark,