I tells meself I’m well out o’ the game;
  Fer look, I mighter married ‘er-an’ then.... 
Ar strike!  ’Er voice wus music when my name
  Wus on ’er lips on them glad ev’nin’s when
We useter meet.  An’ then to think she’d go... 
No, I ain’t jealous—­but—­Ar, I dunno!

I took a derry on this stror ’at coot
  First time I seen ‘im dodgin’ round Doreen. 
’Im, wiv ‘is giddy tie an’ Yankee soot,
  Ferever yappin’ like a tork-machine
About “The Hoffis” where ’e ’ad a grip.... 
The way ’e smiled at ’er give me the pip!

She sez I stoushed ’im, when I promised fair
  To chuck it, even to a friendly spar. 
Stoushed ’im!  I never roughed ’is pretty ’air! 
  I only spanked ’im gentle, fer ’is mar. 
If I’d ‘a’ jabbed ’im once, there would ‘a’ been
An inquest; an’ I sez so to Doreen.

I mighter took an’ cracked ’im in the street,
  When she was wiv ‘im there lars’ Fridee night. 
But don’t I keep me temper when we met? 
  An’ don’t I raise me lid an’ act perlite? 
I only jerks me elbow in ’is ribs,
To give the gentle office to ’is nibs.

Stoushed ’im!  I owns I met ’im on the quiet,
  An’ worded ’im about a small affair;
An’ when ’e won’t put up ’is ’ands to fight—­
  (’E sez, “Fer public brawls ’e didn’t care")—­
I lays ’im ’cross me knee, the mother’s joy,
An’ smacks ’im ’earty, like a naughty boy.

An’ now Doreen she sez I’ve broke me vow,
  An’ mags about this coot’s pore, “wounded pride.” 
An’ then, o’ course, we ’as a ding-dong row,
  Wiv ‘ot an’ stormy words on either side. 
She sez I done it outer jealousy,
An’ so, we parts fer ever—­’er an’ me.

Me jealous?  Jealous of that cross-eyed cow! 
  I set ’im ’cos I couldn’t sight ’is face. 
‘Is yappin’ fair got on me nerves, some’ow. 
  I couldn’t stand ’im ‘angin’ round ’er place. 
A coot like that!...But it don’t matter much,
She’s welkim to ’im if she fancies such.

I swear I’ll never track wiv ’er no more;
  I’ll never look on ‘er side o’ the street—­
Unless she comes an’ begs me pardin for
  Them things she said to me in angry ’eat. 
She can’t ixpeck fer me to smooge an’ crawl. 
I ain’t at any woman’s beck an’ call.

Wimmin!  I’ve took a tumble to their game. 
  I’ve got the ‘ole bang tribe o’ cliners set! 
The ’ole world over they are all the same: 
  Crook to the core the bunch of ’em—­an’ yet
We could ‘a’ been that ’appy, ‘er an’ me... 
But, wot’s it matter?  Ain’t I glad I’m free?

A bloke wiv commin-sense ’as got to own
  There’s little ’appiness in married life. 
The smoogin’ game is better left alone,
  Fer tarts is few that makes the ideel wife. 
An’ them’s the sort that loves wivout disguise,
An’ thinks the sun shines in their ‘usban’s’ eyes.

But when the birds is matin’ in the spring,
  An’ when the tender leaves begin to bud,
A feelin’ comes—­a dilly sorter thing
That seems to sorter swamp ’im like a flood. 
An’ when the fever ’ere inside ’im burns,
Then freedom ain’t the thing fer wot ’e yearns.