by Martyn Herbert & Herberte Jordan (1925) Life 'asn't been no blinkin' bed o' roses Since my missus came into a bit o' brass, She's all for getting into 'igh Soci'ty, An' she's down on anything wot isn't class. Our ole pals isn't good enough. We've 'ad to tick 'em off. An' she's got 'er work well cut out, Turnin' me into a torf. I've got to wear a collar now on week-days, I mustn't wear no 'orsey lookin' suits, I mustn't wear my albert wiv the football medals on, I mustn't wear my saucy yeller boots. I mustn't wear white spats wiv flannel trousers, Or, if I do, there's trouble an' there's strife, I mustn't wear my carpet slippers wiv my dinner jacket, Oh, I tell you it's a fair dorg's life. You wouldn't credit 'ow my wife 'as altered, She used to be a reg'lar modest sort But now she's fairly potty over dancing, She says as 'ow she's goin' to 'ave me taught. We use-ter 'ave a good name once, respectable, though poor, Well, you couldn't call us poor, nor yet respectable no more. I use-ter 'ave to fasten all 'er dresses, Right up the back,—a fine old time it took. Well 'er new evenin' dresses now, they save me all the trouble, 'Cos they 'aven't any blessed back to hook. If I say I don't approve of shimmy-shakin'. She simply shuts me up just like a knife. Now she's goin' to a fancy ball as Eve—wiv me as Adam! Oh I tell you, it's a fair dorg's life. We use-ter 'ave sixpennorth at the pictures, Or else go in the gall'ry at the 'Brit,' Of course, if it was special, like the pantomime at Christmas, Then we use-ter queue up for the early pit. But all that's far too 'vulgar' for my missus nowadays It's Covent Garden Op'ra now, or else these 'igh-brow plays. You can't 'ave any monkey nuts or winkles, You can't suck oranges, it ain't the fing You must'nt sing the choruses, they'd tell you that was rowdy, 'Sides, there isn't any choruses to sing. Between ourselves I'm fair fed up wiv Op'ra, But it's classy, an' it seems to suit the wife So she's goin' to take me wiv'er to another one next Tuesday, Oh, I tell you it's a fair dorg's life. Of course you 'aven't moved in 'igh-class circles, But if you'ad you'd know just 'ow it feels. It's my 'ead wot does the circles, I can tell you, I worries till at times it fairly reels. I've to study 'ow to eat, an' 'ow to dress, an' 'ow to walk I've got to study every word I'm usin' when I talk. I mustn't talk 'orse-racin' to the curate, I mustn't tell the ladies saucy jokes, I'm not allowed to swear before the servants, if you please, Life's pretty 'ard for really swagger folks. I've got to leave off sayin' 'My old woman', Though everybody knows as she's my wife, I mustn't say 'Gor Blimey' when I'm talking to the Bishop, Oh I tell you... it's a fair dorg's life!
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