You may garsp out yer aitches in spassums, until you 'ave got a sore throat,
And it won't give you "clarss" arf as much as cool cheek and the cut o' your coat.
Wot the mivvies call hinsolent hotoor, wot cocktails dub cocksure conceit,
With snideness and "suitings" to match,—that, dear boy, is wot makes the eleet.
There, Harry, you've got it in once! And, now, dear boy, 'ow about you?
Well, I guess, as the Yankees observe, you 'ave bit hoff a chunk you can't chew.
Bit vulgar? Well, never mind that, mate, for, spite of your finnickle fuss,
It's jest wot you guffins calls "vulgar" as swells love to borrer from hus.
There's chick in it, Harry, and that's wot you chalk-witted chowders ain't got.
Not one snappy snide phrase in your sermon, except that old gag "tommy rot,"