And won't the bloomin' furrineer
Over our horacles make merry?
Costs seventeen millions and a arf,
And carn't go nowhere, nor do nothink!
That tots it up! They wouldn't charf,
Eh, BILL, these Big Wigs! What do you think?
Therefore, we're just a useless lot.
After pipe-claying and stiff-starching,
We might be good for stopping shot,
Only that we're not fit for marching!