Who wanted the Derby Day off—for cremating my poor uncle G.?
Smelt a rat, the old Smelfungus did, and he lectured me, too, like old boots,
Saying, Sport wos a Youpass tree, Charlie, and lying wos one of its fruits.
He's a reglar front-row Anti-Gambler, a foe of Mirth, Music, and Malt,
As would 'ave them lay Tattersall's level, and sow Hepsom race-course with salt.
I'd arranged with a sporting greengrocer, and Boodle a smart local Bung,
To tool down by road with a trotter. Us three would 'ave gone a rare splung,
And I ain't missed a Derby this five year. And now all along of old hunks
Instead of sweepstaking for winners, I'm making out bills for hair-trunks.
It's beastly, dear boy, and no bottles. I landed on Ladas last year,