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I've lorst me former joy in gittin' shick,
Or 'eadin' browns; I 'aven't got the 'eart
To word a tom; an', square an' all, I'm sick
Uv that cheap tart
'Oo chucks 'er carkis at a feller's 'ead
An' mauls 'im… Ar! I wish that I wus dead!…
Ther's little breezes stirrin' in the leaves,
An' sparrers chirpin' 'igh the 'ole day long;
An' on the air a sad, sweet music breaves
A bonzer song—
A mournful sort o' choon thet gits a bloke
Fair in the brisket 'ere, an' makes 'im choke….
What is the matter wiv me?… I dunno.
I got a sort o' yearnin' 'ere inside,
A dead crook sort o' thing that won't let go
Or be denied—
A feelin' like I want to do a break,
An' stoush creation for some woman's sake.
The little birds is chirpin' in the nest,
The parks an' gardings is a bosker sight,
Where smilin' tarts walk up an' down, all dressed
In clobber white.
An', as their snowy forms goes steppin' by,
It seems I'm seekin' somethin' on the sly.
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