Kep in bounds it don't do no great 'arm. Poor old Buggins, he flushes and coughs;
Gets hangry, he do, at my talk. I sez, keep on your hair, my good bloke,
Hindignation ain't good for your chest; cut this Sosherlist cant, or you'll choke.
Philanterpy squared in a system would play up Old Nick with the Great,
As 'cute Bishop Magee sez Religion would do—carried out—with the State.
Oh, when Science and Saintship shake hands, in a sperret of sound common sense,
To chuck over the cant of the Pulpit, by Jingo, old pal, it's Himmense!
All cop and no blue ain't my motter; I likes to stand treat to a chum;
And if I wos flush of the ochre, I tell yer I'd make the thing hum.
And there's lots o' the rich is good parters; bit here and bit there, dontcher know;