You jest fox their faces! They enters, looks round, gives a shy sort of sniff,
Seem to contemplate doing a guy, brace their legs, keep their hupper lips stiff;
Take their tickets, walk up to the counter, assumin' a sham sort of bounce,
And ask, shame-faced like, for their gargle, 'as p'r'aps is a 'ot sixteen hounce.
When they git it, a-fume in a tumbler, a-smelling like hegg-chests gone wrong,
They squirm, ask the snowy-capped gurl, "Is this right?"—"Yes, Sir. Sixteen ounce, strong!"
Sez the minx with a cold kind o' smile. "Ah—h—h! percisely!" they smirks, and walks round,
With this "Yorkshire Stinko" in their 'ands—and their 'earts in their mouths I'll be bound.
Then—Gulp! Oh Gewillikins, CHARLIE! it gives yer the ditherums, it do.
Bad enough if you 'ave to wolf one, but it fair gives yer beans when 'tis two.