And wosn’t it rude of a bloke as wos munching a bun to cry “Walker!”?
I’m Tory right down to my boots, at a price, and I bellered “’Ear, ’ear!”
But they don’t cop yours truly with chaff none the more, my dear Charlie, no fear!
Old Bottleblue tipped me his flipper, and ’oped I’d “refreshed,” and all that.
“Wy rather,” sez I, “wot do you think?” at which he stared nto his ’at,
And went a bit red in the gills. Must ha’ thought me a muggins, old man,
To ask sech a question of ’Arry—as though grubbing short was his plan.
I went the rounds proper, I tell yer; ’twas like the free run of a Bar,
And Politics wants lots o’ wetting. Don’t ketch me perched up on a car,
Or ’olding a flag-pole no more. No, percessions, dear boy, ain’t my fad,