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Then Ginger gits end-up an' makes a speech—
('E'd 'ad a couple, but 'e wasn't shick).
"My cobber "ere," 'e sez, "'as copped a peach!
Uv orl the barrer-load she is the pick!
I 'opes 'e won't fergit 'is pals too quick
As wus 'is frien's in olden days, becors,
I'm trustin', later on," sez Ginger Mick,
"To celebrate the chris'nin'."… 'Oly wars!
At last Doreen an' me we gits away,
An' leaves 'em doin' nothin' to the scran.
(We're honey-moonin' down beside the Bay.)
I gives a 'arf a dollar to the man
Wot drives the cab; an' like two kids we ran
To ketch the train—Ah, strike! I could 'a' flown!
We gets the carridge right agin the van.
She whistles, jolts, an' starts… An' we're alone!
Doreen an' me! My precious bit o' fluff!
Me own true wedded wife!… An' we're alone!
She seems so frail, an' me so big an' rough—
I dunno wot this feelin' is that's grown
Inside me 'ere that makes me feel I own
A thing so tender like I fear to squeeze
Too 'ard fer fear she'll break… Then, wiv a groan
I starts to 'ear a coot call, "Tickets, please!"
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