An' dulls 'is senses with the dope
That 'arf a man ain't got no 'ope.

'E makes me tired. But, all the same,
I tries to work a little game.
"Look 'ere," I sez. "About this Flo.
Jim mightn't come back 'ome, yeh know.
You 'ave a fly; yeh're sure to score;
Besides, all's fair in love an' war."

"Sling that!" 'e sez; but I goes on
"Ole Jim won't blame yeh when she's gone.
'E knows, the same as me an' you,
These silly tarts, they can't keep true."
I piles it on until I've got
'Im where I want 'im--jumpin' 'ot.

An' then 'e sez, "'Ere, sling that talk!
I might be groggy in me walk;
But if yeh say them things to me
I'm man enough to crack yeh; see?"
"Righto," sez I. "That was me plan.
Now wot about this 'arf a man?"

'E stares at me, an' then sez, slow,
"Wot is yer game? Wot do yeh know?"
"Nothin'," I tells 'im, "only this
When there's a waitin' tart to kiss
Yeh're only 'arf a man; but when
There's blokes to fight, yeh're twenty men."