Sails round, going bobbing for whiting, and singing at night on the cliff,
Not to mention rides out, as per posters, and quiet flirtations with Loo,
I was quietly asked to chuck up 'long o' Mother's rheumatics! Yah boo!
'Arry's not sech a mug, I essure you. Sweet Home is dashed fiddlededee.
I'm not nuts on yer dabby domestic, it spiles a smart chap for a spree.
Ony sorry my time's nearly hup; but, as fur as the ochre will carry,
Do the briny with swells like a swell, is the tip of Yours scrumptiously, 'Arry.
