But I preferred pecking[284] and prowling, and spotting the mugs making love.
Don’t ketch me a-slinging my legs about arter a beast of a ball
At ninety degrees in the shade or so, Charlie, old chap, not at all.
Athletics ’aint ’ardly my form, and a cutaway coat and tight bags
Are the species of togs for yours truly, and lick your loose “flannels” to rags.
So I let them as liked do a swelter; I sorntered about on the snap.
Rum game this yer Politics, Charlie, seems arf talkee-talkee and trap.
Jest fancy old Bluebottle letting “the multitood” pic-nic and lark,
And make Battersea Park of his pleasure-grounds, Bathelmy Fair of his park!
“To show his true love for the People!” sez one vote-of-thanking tall-talker,