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Well, I dunno. It's that way wiv a bloke.
If she'd 'a' breasted up to me an' spoke,
I'd thort 'er jist a common bit o' fluff,
An' then fergot about 'er, like enough.
It's jist like this. The tarts that's 'ard ter get
Makes you all 'ot to chase 'em, an' to let
The cove called Cupid git an' 'ammer-lock;
An' lose yer block.
I know a bloke 'oo knows a bloke 'oo toils
In that same pickle found-ery. ('E boils
The cabbitch storks or somethink.) Anyway,
I gives me pal the orfis fer to say
'E 'as a sister in the trade 'oo's been
Out uv a job, an' wants to meet Doreen;
Then we kin get an intro, if we've luck.
'E sez, "Ribuck."
O' course we worked the oricle; you bet!
But, 'Struth, I ain't recovered frum it yet!
'Twas on a Saturd'y, in Colluns Street,
An'—quite by accident, o' course—we meet.
Me pal 'e trots 'er up an' does the toff—
'E allus wus a bloke fer showin' off.
"This 'ere's Doreen," 'e sez. "This 'ere's the Kid."
I dips me lid.
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