"Westminster Police Court.—Policeman X brought a paper of doggrel verses to the Magistrate, which had been thrust into his hands, X said, by an Italian boy, who ran away immediately afterwards.
"The Magistrate, after perusing the lines, looked hard at X, and said he did not think they were written by an Italian.
"X blushing, said he thought the paper read in Court last week, and which frightened so the old gentleman to whom it was addressed, was also not of Italian origin."
O Signor Broderip you are a wickid ole man
You wexis us little horgan boys whenever you can,
How dare you talk of Justice, and go for to seek
To pussicute us horgin boys, you senguinary Beek?
Though you set in Vestminster surrounded by your crushers
Harrogint and habsolute like the Hortacrat of hall the Rushers,
Yet there is a better vurld I'd have you for to know
Likewise a place vere the henimies of horgin-boys will go.
O you vickid Herod without any pity