A Slop at every street-end standin' sentry,
Won't spile our game like lots o' 'Lectric Lights.
The Lights o' London? Yah! That's bin all boko.
Were London lighted, how could you and me
Garotte a swell, or give a tight 'un toko?
We ain't got arf a chance where coves can see.
'Tis darkness plays our game, and we've 'ad plenty,
But this means mischief, or my name ain't BILL.
Wy, not one pooty little plant in twenty
Could we pull orf if light spiled pluck and skill.