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Sore Throat
The pale young man he comes to me,
An' chats me good an' fair;
"That langwidge that you use," sez he
"Pollutes the good clean air.
Why don't you chuck sich silly rot,
An' line-up with our 'Clean-Lipped Lot?'"
Well, 'abit's 'abit; there you are,
An' since I was a kid,
In school an' shop an' street an' bar,
I picked up words, I did.
To use the fancy swears I hear
Comes natural as sinkin' beer.
An', square an' all, I got no use
For them poor, shrinkin' guys
Who, at the sound of choice abuse,
Turn pale, an' rolls their eyes.
Who fades and wilts an' calls for nurse,
To hear a blithered soldier's curse.
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