I'm arf inclined to chuck my "round," or else retire from bizziness.
It's aggrawacious, that it is, arter such long years sarving ye,
Picking ye out the chicest lumps, the primest slices carving ye,
To be a-chivvied like this here! Here's lot o' fust-rate wittles,
And with your chance of a blow-out you're jest a-playing skittles.
Won't even give me time to carve, much less a chance to skewer.
More 'aste less speed! You will not find a maxim wot's much truer,
For dog, or cat. Jack, Sandy, Pat, or Taffy—whose first turn it is
To-day by rights—your spitfire fights may go on for eternities,
And bring no good, nor yet no food. Wait, and ye'll all 'ave suthink,