And it is sech a lark to chi-ike them, the best bit o' fun of the day.
Old jokers in sealskin caps, Charlie, drawn over their poor blue old ears,
Pooty gals with complexions like paste-pots, old mivvies gone green with the queers;
Little toffs with their billycocks raked, jest to swagger it off like, yer know,
But with hoptics like badly-biled whelks. Oh, I tell yer it's all a prime show.
Larf, Charlie? It bangs Arthur Roberts, and makes a chap bloomin' nigh bust.
I must take a 'am sanwich to munch. Wen a cove ketches sight on it fust,
And I sings out, "Hi! who'll 'ave a fat 'un?" to see that bloke shudder and shrink,
And go gooseberry green in the gills, is too lovely, mate. Wot do you think?
And all this, with the larks on the sands, niggers, spotting the bathers,—that's spiff!—