I'm bound to spot more winners; I've a eye that's like a 'awk;
I'm a mass of oof and 'air-oil, shine and starch;
Yus, a reg'lar mass of ochre, shine and starch.
Chorus.
As I walk along, still "going strong,"
With my Tuppenny all a-flare,
You can 'ear old buffers swear,
As my baccy scents the air.
You can hear 'em sigh,
And moan, "Oh my!"