The Curick

by Barry Pain

THE CURICK

By BARRY PAIN

FUST theer come the Sad'dy's rent, and 'e were rood ter me,
Next I gort th' inspecter, and you knows 'ow 'awsh they be,
Third I gort the doctor—'is remawks was pretty grim,
But lawst I gort the curick, and I evened up on 'im.
 
When yer 'asn't gort no work yer doesn't git no pye,
And when the cash ain't 'andy, then be keerful whort yer sye,
As sure as you're a week be'ind, you're goin' ter repent,
If you're not extry civil ter the chap whort calls fur rent.

When you've bin a-bed fur weeks, gort rhoometics crool,
Kids 'ull (bein' darny) tike thet chawnce ter cut their school;
Then—it's barnd ter 'appen—th' inspecter's on yer track.
Well, don't mind if 'e is a fool, jest you don't awnser back.

Them doctors, they is simular. Arst questshings? By the score.
And pretty privit questshings tew. Their orders? Rawther more.
And if yer disobeys 'em, then they gives it to yer 'ot.
But dew I cheek them doctors? Most emphetically not.

But the curick—ho, the curick! When you've lyin' ill in bed,
Thinkin' of whort yer'd liked ter sye, but whort yer 'aven't said,
When yer feels the need o' some kind friend at whom it's sife ter swear,
It's a joy ter 'ear the curick come a-stumblin' up the stair.
 
I awsks 'im whort 'e's pide fur it, and wheer 'e bought thet fice,
I tells 'im don't warnt no trac's a-litt'rin' up the plice,
Nor yet no 'arf-bred monkeys interferin' with my sins,
I lyes inter 'im proper—an' the beggar stands an' grins.

Thet's it—it evens up the score, and yet it don't wuk right,
I says, "O tike yer ugly self art o' my bloomin' sight!"
And when 'e never said a word, but went, ter my surprise,
Blowed if I didn't call 'im beck and apololergize.