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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. To 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 wus 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 to chat 'er in the street,
But, bli'me! Did she turn me down a treat!
The way she tossed 'er 'ead 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 wus square.
She jist sailed by an' lef me standin' there
Like any mug. Thinks I, "I'm out o' luck,"
An' done a duck.
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