You can set in the kitching the ’ole of the day,
Smoke your clay, brile your bloater, or swill down the booze,
While you reads o’ your deeds in the Hecko or Noos,
An’ you splits the bone buttons right orf of your west
Wen they brings you the word of your latest harrest;
An’ you larfs till the water runs out of your heyes
Wen you thinks of the slops goin’ round in disguise,
And the ’andsome reward as no cully won’t reap,
’Cept some pal blows the gaff in the Garden o’ Sleep!
Sleep! sleep! for the slops we’re too deep!