With their black Heton jackets, white aprons, and trim "mutton chopper" each side,
At the Caffys, dear boy, 'arter twelve, it's a wonder to see 'em waltz round
With a tray-full of syrups and strors, with no spillings, and 'ardly a sound.
Bit confusing at fust, the French lingo; their posters an' cetrer looks rum,
And you've got to be fly to their meaning afore you can make the thing hum.
I kep' on button-holing old buffers to find out my way about town,
And sailed briskly along fur as "Esker—?" when, 'ang it!—I mostly broke down.
Esker voo, with a gurgle to follow, don't fetch 'em, these Frenchies, not much;
"Conny par" comes a great deal too often, and then a cove feels out of touch.
If you want to make love, find yer way, or keep check on the nuggets you spend,