'One is 'ome, if but a dungheap; if you're pitchforked out of that,
And turned loose in chilly London on the scoop, like a stray cat,
With yer bits o' sticks permiskus in a barrer or a truck,
I can tell yer you feels lost like, and fair down upon yer luck.
Heviction? When you're stoney-broke, your dubs all hup the spout,
And you've nix to raise the rent on, I suppose you must turn hout;
'Cos without them "rights o' proputty" no country couldn't jog;
But that brings a cove small comfort when 'e's 'ouseless, in a fog!
I 'ave knocked about a middlin' little bit, you bet I 'ave,
And I ain't what Barber BIDDLECOMBE would call "a heasy shave";