I made nine quid the fust day, an' eleven-ten th' next!
Then I went t' church on Sunday, but 'twas not to 'ear th' text.
I slipped out past the others, an' I stood an' kep' me lamps
Fixed 'ard on likely-lookin' men an' wimmen with the gamps.
I 'ad a blooming Field Day, then! The cash come pourin' in!
You'd never think humbrellas was the cause o' so much sin!
The curate weighed out twelve-an'-six; the vicar's wife a bit;
A Scotchman gimme four-p'nce - an' then fell down in a fit!" ---
Ter cut things short, sir, Bill 'as made sech 'eaps of L.S.D.
That now 'e talks o' 'andin' all the bizziness ter me!
An' when 'e does - 'Ere wot's the rush, sir? Mind them glasses! Mind!
Lor' lumme, 'e's gorn quick! An' - why 'e's left 'is gamp be'ind!


 
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