That place as fust-fly at life's fences is one as I don't like to yield,
Espechly to one like Bill Blossit—no style, not a bit about Bill!
And they talk of a 'Appy New Year, mate, and cackle o' peace and goodwill!
Oh yus, I'd goodwill 'em, Bill Blossit and false Fanny Friswell, a lot!
They are off to the world's fair to-night, sir, and that's wy I say it's such rot.
If form such as mine's to go 'obbling whilst mugginses win out o' sight,
I say the world's handicap's wrong, mate, and Christmas cards won't set it right.
Lor bless yer, 'e ain't got no patter, not more than a nutmeg, Bill ain't;
But the railway has taken his shop, and he's come out as fresh as new paint.
And so because I'm out of luck, and that duffer has landed the chink,