These Strikes is becoming rare noosances, dashed if they ain't, dear old boy.
They're all over the shop, like Miss ZÆO, wot street-kids seems so to enjoy.
Mugs' game! They'll soon find as the Marsters ain't goin' to be worried and welched,
And when they rob coves of their 'olidays, 'ang it, they ought to be squelched.
'Owsomever, I'm mucked, that's a moral. This doosid dead-set against Wealth
Is a sign o' the times as looks orkud, and bad for the national 'ealth.
There ain't nothink the nobs is fair nuts on but wot these 'ere bellerers ban.
Wy, they're down upon Sport, now, a pelter. Perposterous, ain't it, old man?
Bin a reading FRED 'ARRISON'S kibosh along o' "The Feast of St. Grouse,"
On the "Glorious Twelfth," as he calls it; wen swells is fair shut of the 'Ouse,