Can't fight, can't march, can't 'ardly see!
And yet young Mister RUDYARD KIPLING
Don't picture hus as kiddies slack,
Wot can't go out without our nurses,
But ups and pats us on the back
In very pooty potry-verses.[1]
We're much obliged to 'im, I'm sure,
(Though potry ain't my fav'rit reading,)
He's civil, kind and not cock-sure;
Good sense goes sometimes with good-breeding.