spile sport.

Want things all to theirselves, these old jossers, and all on the
strictest Q.T.
Their idea of the Thames being "spiled" by the smallest suggestion of
spree,
Wy it's right down rediklus, old pal, gives a feller the ditherums,
it do.
I mean going for them a rare bat, and I'm game to wire in till all's
blue.

Who are they, these stuckuppy snipsters, as jaw about quiet and peace,
Who would silence the gay "constant-screamer" and line the Thames
banks with perlice;
Who sneer about "'ARRY at 'Enley," and sniff about "cads on the course,"
As though it meant "Satan in Eden"? I'll 'owl at sich oafs till I'm
'oarse!

Scrap o'sandwich-greased paper'll shock 'em, a ginger-beer bottle or
"Bass,"
Wot 'appens to drop 'mong the lilies, or gets chucked aside on the
grass,
Makes 'em gasp like a frog in a frying-pan. Br-r-r-r! Wot old mivvies
they are!
Got nerves like a cobweb, I reckon, a smart Banjo-twang makes 'em jar.

I'm Toffy, you know, and no flies, CHARLIE; swim with the Swells, and
all that,
But I'm blowed if this bunkum don't make me inclined to turn Radical
rat.