Wen I told 'er 'er lips wos true "spoon"-bait, she twigged wot I meant pooty quick.
"Oh, I carn't abide anglers," she whispered, "they're flabby and cold like their fish,
'Ow I wish Jack would jest sling 'is 'ook, and leave hus,—well, you know wot I wish."
"Oh. I'm fly, dear," sez I, with a 'ug. So I nobbled the Guard with a tip,
And we managed to nip in fust-class, and so gave Master Jolter the slip.
It give 'im the needle in course, being left in the lurch in this way,
But the petticoats know wot is wot, and so wot's your true dasher to say?
Jack 'as cut me since then at the "Primrose Club," bust 'im! I don't care a toss;
Your angler is always a juggins, so he's no pertikler big loss.
Bell Bonsor is mashed on me proper, and if I'd a fancy to marry,—