Supplied with cash, which held between his jaws—
The reason’s plain—he had no hands but paws—
He’d trot o’er Tower Hill to a favourite shop,
There eat his meal and down his money drop.
To club he went on each successive night,
Where, dressed in jacket gay, he took his pipe;
With spectacles on nose he played his tricks,
And pawed the paper, not the politics.
Going his usual round, near Traitors’ Gate,
Infirm and almost blind, he met his fate;