With a free an' heasy hair,
You can twig the donahs stare.
"Bob must be a millionnaire!"
You can 'ear 'em cry,
"Oh, ain't 'e fly?
And carn't 'e wink the hother heye?"
The man wot smokes the prime Two-D cigar, oh!
I've chucked my crib, and two-quid-screw, for betting's now my walk;
I do my mornin' march
Down to the Marble Arch.