Meanwhile, I'm a bit out-of-work. Unemployed, so to speak, like a lot,
Although I ain't no "Unskilled Labourer." Hardie talks thunderin' rot,
But I thought 'e might make me a hopening. Somehow the fakement was lost.
And yet I should be flush o' work, for we've had a unusual frost,
As this House, like the rest, must have felt. Wy, I thought they'd ha' bust long ago,
Them Guverment pipes, and be blowed to 'em. 'Ere in the sludge and the snow
I've bin waiting a tidy long spell, till my toes 'ave like icicles grown.
I've bin journeyman quite long enough, and I want to set up "on my own."
Pal Arthur is all very well, but at bossing a bit of a slob.
And when these big pipes do a bust, well—I see a rare charnce of a job!