Sure of 'is title then, the champeen Day
Begins to put on dawg among 'is push,
An', as he mooches on 'is gaudy way,
Drors tribute from each tree an' flow'r an' bush.
An', w'ile 'e swigs the dew in sylvan bars,
The sun shouts insults at the sneakin' stars.

Then, lo! the push o' Day rise to applaud;
An' all 'is creatures clamour at 'is feet
Until 'e thinks'imself a little gawd,
An' swaggers on an' kids 'imself a treat.
The w'ile the lurkin' barrackers o' Night
Sneak in retreat an' plan another fight.

On thro' the hours, triumphant, proud an' fit,
The champeen marches on 'is up'ard way,
Till, at the zenith, bli'me! 'E-is-IT!
And all the world bows to the Boshter Day.
The jealous Night speeds ethergrams thro' space
'Otly demandin' terms, an' time, an' place.

A wile the champeen scorns to make reply;
'E's taken tickets on 'is own 'igh worth;
Puffed up wiv pride, an' livin' mighty 'igh,
'E don't admit that Night is on the earth.
But as the hours creep on 'e deigns to state
'E'll fight for all the earth an' 'arf the gate.

Late afternoon...Day feels 'is flabby arms,
An' tells 'imself 'e don't seem quite the thing.