I’ve watched ’em walkin’ in the gardings ’ere
  Cliners from orfices an’ shops an’ such;
The sorter skirts I dursn’t come too near,
  Or dare to touch. 
An, when I see the kind er looks they carst... 
  Gorstrooth!  Wot is the use o’ me, I arst?

Wot wus I slung ’ere for?  An wot’s the good
  Of yearnin’ after any ideel tart?... 
Ar, if a bloke wus only understood! 
  ’E’s got a ’eart: 
’E’s got a soul inside ’im, poor or rich. 
  But wot’s the use, when ’Eaven’s crool’d ’is pitch?

I tells meself some day I’ll take a pull
  An’ look eround fer some good, stiddy job,
An’ cut the push fer good an’ all; I’m full
  Of that crook mob! 
An’, in some Spring the fucher ’olds in store,
  I’ll cop me prize an’ long in vain no more.

The little winds is stirrin’ in the trees,
  Where little birds is chantin’ lovers’ lays;
The music of the sorft an’ barmy breeze... 
  Aw, spare me days! 
If this ‘ere dilly feelin’ doesn’t stop
  I’ll lose me block an’ stoush some flamin’ cop!

II.  The Intro

‘Er name’s Doreen ...Well spare me bloomin’ days! 
You could er knocked me down wiv ’arf a brick! 
  Yes, me, that kids meself I know their ways,
  An’ ‘as a name for smoogin’ in our click! 
I just lines up an’ tips the saucy wink. 
But strike!  The way she piled on dawg!  Yer’d think
  A bloke was givin’ back-chat to the Queen.... 
   ’Er name’s Doreen.

I seen ’er in the markit first uv all,
Inspectin’ brums at Steeny Isaacs’ stall. 
  I backs me barrer in—­the same ole way—­
  An’ sez, “Wot O!  It’s been a bonzer day. 
’Ow is it fer a walk?"...Oh, ’oly wars! 
The sorter look she gimme!  Jest becors
  I tried to chat ’er, like you’d make a start
   Wiv any tart.

An’ I kin take me oaf I wus perlite. 
An’ never said no word that wasn’t right,
  An’ never tried to maul ’er, or to do
  A thing yeh might call crook.  Ter tell yeh true,
I didn’t seem to ’ave the nerve—­wiv ’er. 
I felt as if I couldn’t go that fur,
  An’ start to sling off chiack like I used... 
   Not INTRAJUICED!

Nex’ time I sighted ’er in Little Bourke,
Where she was in a job.  I found’er lurk
  Wus pastin’ labels in a pickle joint,
  A game that—­any’ow, that ain’t the point. 
Once more I tried ter chat ’er in the street,
But, bli’me!  Did she turn me down a treat! 
  The way she tossed ’er ‘cad an’ swished ’er skirt! 
   Oh, it wus dirt!

A squarer tom, I swear, I never seen,
In all me natchril, than this ’ere Doreen. 
  It wer’n’t no guyver neither; fer I knoo
  That any other bloke ’ad Buckley’s ’oo
Tried fer to pick ’er up.  Yes, she was square. 
She jist sailed by an’ lef’ me standin’ there
  Like any mug.  Thinks I, “I’m out er luck,”
   An’ done a duck