All the same if you work, all the same if you play.
But the lark’s when a goney[93] up with us they shut,
As ain’t up to our lurks,[94] our flash-patter,[95] and smut;
But soon in his eye nothing green would remain,
He knows what’s o’clock when he comes out again.
And the next time he’s quodded[96] so downy and snug,
He may thank us for making him fly to the jug.[97]
But here comes a cuffin—which cuts short my tale,
It’s agin rules is screevin’[98] to pals out o’ gaol.
(The following postscript seems to have been added when the Warder had passed.)