My mug, mate, was made for a larf, and you don't ketch it pulling a kite.
So fur all serene; but this joker, I tell yer, runs slap orf the track
Wen he says that my togs and my talk are "the fashion of sev'ral years back."
The slang of the past is my patter—mine, Charlie, he sez! Poor young man!
If I carn't keep upsides with the cackle of snide 'uns, dear Charlie, who can?
Wot is slang, my dear boy, that's the question. The mugs and the jugs never joke,
Never gag, never work in a wheeze; no, their talk is all skilly and toke,
'Cos they ain't got no bloomin' hinvention; they keeps to the old line of rails,
With about as much "go" as a Blue Point, about as much rattle as snails.
Mavor's Spellin' and Copybook motters is all they can run to. But slang?