(Or, 'A Four-ale Mouth Like Mine')

The things wot I've put up wiv since I came into some brass
To go thro'them again I'd rather not
It's lucky for my uncle that 'e ain't alive today
For if 'e was I'd kill 'im on the spot
'E left me all 'is money, and 'e made some tidy piles
When 'e kept a Safe Deposit for the gentry down the Dials
I got two thousand shiners, which of course, was very nice
But I wouldn't be a gentleman for forty times the price.

Chorus: For yer can't do this, and yer can't do that
Its ev'rything yer like you mustn't do
Some toffs complained of the nasty smell
'Cos I took a penny faggit in the Grand 'otel
When I shout for a pot of 'alf-and-'alf
They goes and brings me wine
But yer can't kid me to drink champagne
Wiv a four-ale mouth like mine!

I got my 'ead in training for a caddy made o'silk
And it caused me great uneasiness for months
But when I 'eld it out to buy a tanner's worth of whelks
I found the blessed top come out at once
I thought I'd do the 'eavy wiv a brand new scarlet tie
So I bought one for a dollar at a shop just near the Cri
I bunged a diamond pin on, but I thought I'd give it best
When they said, 'That ain't a necktie, it's a thing to warm yer chest!'

Chorus: For yer can't do this, and yer can't do that
Its ev'rything yer like you mustn't do
I got chucked out of a Music Hall
'Cos I ate a quart of winkles in a ten bob stall
They tell me that kid gloves I ought to wear
And patent boots wot shine
But yer can't kid me in patent-leather gloves
Wiv an 'ob-nailed fist like mine.

When I goes in a cook-shop, wot they calls a rest-yer-aunt
I up and tells the blooming waiter bloke
I sez, 'If Baron Rothschild was to dine 'ere ev'ry day
In 'arf a dozen fortnights 'e'd be broke.'
They charged me two-and-sixpence for a tiny piece of fish
I should call it dear at fourpence if they let yer keep the dish
Their three-'arf-dollar dinner on a plate looked very small
Why, for 'arf the blessed 'a'pence I could clear a corfee-stall.

Chorus: For yer can't do this, and yer can't do that
Its ev'rything yer like you mustn't do
Last night I pulls up at a West End slop
And I arst 'im to direct me to a fried fish shop
'E showed me Frascatarti's Rest-yer-aunt
Where swells like me should dine
But yer can't feed me on muck-teetotal soup
Wiv a stewed-eel mouth like mine.

You mustn't use plain English if you isn't feeling well
When mixing wiv the 'igh-class Upper Ten
If you've got 'collywobbles'in yer poor old 'darby kel'
You call it spasms in the abdomen
You mustn't play at 'pitch and toss'to pass the time away
But they've got a kiddish pastime wot they seems to think is prime
You stretch a sort of 'air-net on a table nice and long
Then you get some soft-roed billiard balls and play at 'Pinky- Pong'.

Chorus: For yer must do this, and yer must do that
And ev'rything yer like you mustn't do
They're going to take me a-shooting soon
Well, I've often shot at bottles and I've shot the moon
I'm just off to Scotland for a week
So I'm learning 'Auld Lang Syne'
But they can't kid me to wear Scotch kilts
Wiv an 'ambone leg like mine!

Written and composed by Edgar Bateman & Fred W Leigh - 1902
Performed by Alec Hurley (1871-1913)
From Music Hall Lyrics Collection
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