To lounge on a cushion and hear the balls rattle
'Midst smoke-fumes, and sips on the field of green cloth,
Is better than leading slow troops to sham battle,
In stupid conditions that rouse a man's wrath.
Commissions, they say, go a-begging. Precisely!
Incapables take them, but capables shy.
For twenty-one years you have harried us nicely.
And now, like the rest, we're on Strike, Sir. And why?
The game, you old fossil, is not worth the candle,
Your kicks for my halfpence? The bargain's too bad!