But that brings a cove small comfort when 'e's 'ouseless, in a fog!

I 'ave knocked about a middlin' little bit, you bet I 'ave,
And I ain't what Barber BIDDLECOMBE would call "a heasy shave";
But these Sanitary codgers give me beans, and no mistake.
I am fly to most all capers, but don't tumble to _their_ fake.

Seems to me all sentimental jor and cold chuck-out, it do.
They may call their big Committees, and may chat till all is blue,
But to shift me till they gives me somethink sweeter is all rot;
Better leave my garret winder, and the flower in the pot.

That gerenum there looks proper; which I bought it of a bloke
What does the "All a-blowin'!" with a barrer and a moke;
And though tuppences is tuppences, I ain't so jolly sure
As to spend two-d. upon it were to play the blooming cure

NICKY SPRIGGINS did chi-ike me. Reglar nubbly one is NOCK,
With about as much soft feelink as a blessed butcher's block.
He'd a made a spiffing Club Swell if he'd ony 'ad the chink,
With them lips like a ham sandwidge, and them eyes as never blink.

And _I_ ain't no softy, neither, bet your buttons. That don't pay,
For you're 'bliged to keep yer eyes peeled and to twig the time o' day;
But I've got a mash on flowers; they are better than four 'arf,
Them red blazers in my winder; so let NOCKY 'ave his larf!

NOCKY tells me that the Westry means a-clearin' hout our place
For to make a bit o' garding, wot they calls a Hopen Space,
O _I_ know the sort o' fakement, gravel walks, a patch o' grass,