For they miss the bits of thrashing just to keep the life within 'em,
And the cuts that makes 'em lively, arter waiting in the street,
For 'tis but being on the stand that keeps 'em on their feet.
Now, blow'd if I can understand this here licensious day.
Unless it means the taking all our licence quite away.
And then, again, for characters, how very hard they use 'em,
Both them as vainly strive to find, and those who'd gladly lose 'em.
The cads look quite cadaverous, to think there's such a fuss
At their stepping from the treadmill, to the step behind a 'bus.
But here's the greatest grief, and sure it makes one choke to put on