He's great upon the music-halls, can tell you what befalls there;
He drops in at the Gaiety, and ornaments the stalls there;
He knows each vapid joke by heart, and wishes that he knew more;
They quite conform in quality to his idea of humour.
He skims the sportin' papers, and devours the shillin' thriller;
He counts the bard of comic songs a cut above a Schiller—
In fact, they scoff at poets in his very wide-awake sphere,
And in his secret soul he has a fine contempt for Shakspeare.
He dawdles dully through his day in quite the latest fashion—
A round of folly minus wit, and vice without its passion.