As talk pooty on the questions wot concerns hus in the Slum.
There ain't nothink pooty in 'em, and I cannot 'elp but think
Some of our friends 'as spiled our case by piling on the pink.

Foxes 'ave 'oles, the Book sez; well, no doubt they feels content,
For they finds, or makes, their 'ouses, and don't 'ave to pay no
rent;
But _our_ 'oles--well, someone builds 'em for us, such, in course
is kind,
But it ain't a bad investment, as them Landlords seems to find.

The Marquiges and Mother Church pick lots of little plums,
And the wust on 'em don't seem to be their proputty in slums.
Oh, I'd like to take a Bishop on the trot around our court,
And then arsk 'ow the Church spends the coin collected from our
sort.

Wot's the use of pictering 'errors? Let 'im put 'is 'oly nose
To the pain of close hinspection; lot his venerable toes
Pick a pathway through our gutter, let his gaiters climb our stairs;
And when 'e kneels that evening, I should like to 'ear 'is prayers!

I'm afraid that in Rats' Rents he mightn't find a place to kneel
Without soiling of his small clothes. Yus, to live in dirt, I feel
Is a 'orrid degradation; but one thing I'd like to know,
Is it wus than living _on_ it? Let 'im answer; it's his go.

"All a blowing" ain't much paternised, not down our Court, it ain't.
Wich we aren't as sweet as iersons, not yet as fresh as paint!
For yer don't get spicy breezes in a den all dirt and dusk,