And arter a few 'ours cold crawl up to 'Ampstead, we long for a something to mend us or hend us,
We don't care much which, till the rum 'ot 'as warmed us. Ah! life is a matter of cumfable feeling,
And if it's wuth living or not is a question of temperytoor; that there ain't no concealing.
Wy, a chap warm, and one chilled to the marrer, is no more alike than hegg-flip and a hicicle.
Lose me about Peckham Rye in a fog, and I'd kick a stray dog, or knock over a bicycle.
Darkness as lets you drive into a lamp-post, and makes your shirt feel just like moist paper-mashy,
Would make a harkangel a porkypine; speshul if you've a lamp broke, and the branches are splashy.
You just take a saint or a syrup, and git 'im to drive a cross fare, in a fog, up to Streatham,
And find 'isself lost, running into a churchyard or up a blind halley, and if 'e don't let 'em
Fly frequent and free, words beginning in d, and a few more loud letters, as bring conserlation