I 'ave always felt it "bizness" to take care no rival stud
On my road to "far Cathay."
Wot? She's fired upon your gunboats? Well, I'd like to know, yer see,
If them gunboats wos cavortin' where they didn't ought to be.
Your clutch upon 'er wrist, eh? Well, that's like your bloomin' cheek!
She shrinks from you, my Frenchy. No, yer know if she should squeak—
Give a reglar woman's squeak,
Though she looks carved out o' teak—
I should think o' my own womankind, my friend, and I should—speak
In the British sailor's way!