Pooty girls, first-class lotion, and music. I tell yer we did let things go.
Who sez 'Enley ain't up to old form, that Society gives it the slip?
Wish you could 'ave seen us—and heard us—old boy, when aboard of our ship.
Peonies and poppies ain't in it for colour with our little lot,
And with larfter and banjos permiskus we managed to mix it up 'ot.
My blazer was claret and mustard, my "stror" was a rainbow gone wrong;
I ain't one who's ashamed of his colours, but likes 'em mixed middlingish strong.
'EMMY 'OPKINS, the fluffy-'aired daughter, a dab at a punt or canoe,
Said I looked like a garden of dahlias, and showed up her neat navy blue.
Fair mashed on yours truly, Miss EMMY; but that's only jest by the way,