And when I'm full up, and astride, with my shoulder well over the
wheel,
And my knickerbocks pelting like pistons, I tell yer I make the
thing squeal.

My form is chin close on the 'andle, my 'at set well back on my 'ed,
And my spine fairly _'umped_ to it, CHARLIE, and then carn't I
paint the town red?
They call me "The Camel" for that, _and_ my stomach-capas'ty for
"wet."
Well, my motter is hease afore helegance. As for the liquor,--you
bet!

There's a lot of old mivvies been writing long squeals to the
_Times_ about hus.
They call us "road-tyrants" and rowdies; but, lor! it's all
fidgets and fuss.
I'd jest like to scrumplicate some on 'em; ain't got no heye for a
lark.
_I_ know 'em; they squawk if we scrummage, and squirm if we makes
a remark.

If I spots pooty gurls when out cycling, I tips 'em the haffable
nod;
Wy not? If a gent carn't be civil without being scowled at, it's
hodd.
Ah! and some on 'em tumble, I tell yer, although they may look a
mite shy;
It is only the stuckuppy sort as consider it rude or fie-fie.