But there are, you bet your buttons. Who'd select 'em for their birth?
Not you, not me, not no one, if you asked 'em, I expect;
But yer place o' birth yer see, gents' jest the thing yer carn't select.
If you're born where streets is narrer, and where rooms is werry small,
Where you've damp sludge for a ceiling, rotting plarster for a wall;
Where yer carn't eat, sleep, wash yerselves, or lay up when you're sick,
Without tumbling one o'er tother, wy, yer sinks, gents, pooty quick.
Sinks! Yes, when wot yer lives in is a sink, or somethink wus;
With a drunkard for a mother, and some neighbour for a nuss;
With the gutter for yer playground, and a 'ome from which yer shrink,