Is like to 'eavenly 'lectric lights outshining the democracy
As the Clock-tower's 'fulgence do the flare at some fried-fish shop, Mum.
Oh, there's a somethink soothing in a Dook, or Earl, or Bishop, Mum,
As makes yer mere M.P.'s sing small, as may be taller-chandlerses.
Its henvy, Mum, that's wot it is, they've got the yaller janderses
Along o' bilious jealousy; though wy young Rogeberry ever did
Allow hisself to herd with them—well, drat it, there, I never did!—
As long as I can twirl a mop or sluice a floor or ceiling for
The blessed Peers, I'll 'old with 'em, as I've a feller feeling for.
Birds of a feather flock—well, well! I 'ope I knows my place, I do;