With blow-pipe, and lamp-black, and size, you won't find London through if yer try;
And at "wiping a jint"—ah!—a pickter—there's none as can wipe Joey's eye.
Then at sanitry work! Bless yer buttons, yer dashed County Council ain't in it;
And as to that there Wallace Bruce, wy, I'll jist wipe him up in a minit,
Though he has a good fighting name on 'im. Calls me a quack, too, does Bill,
And 'ints I dunno my own trade! Wait a bit, and I'll give him a pill.
Insanitry aireys, indeed! As a judge of a rookery or slum
There ain't ne'er a Cockney C. C. as can sideup with Joey the Brum;
Wot 'e doesn't know 'aint wuth knowing. I'll set 'em all right, though,—in time.
When England's all Brummagemised, and I'm boss of it, won't it be prime?