Hoctober, my 'arty, and 'ARRY, wus luck! 's back in town,
Where it's all gitting messy and misty; the boollyvard trees is all
brown,
Them as ain't gone as yaller as mustard. I _do_ 'ate the Autumn,
dear boy,
When a feller 'as spent his last quid, and there's nothink to do or
enjoy.
Cut it spicy, old man, by the briny, I did, and no error. That Loo
Was a rattler to keep up the pace whilst a bloke 'ad a brown left to
blue.
Cleared me out a rare bat, I can tell yer; no Savings Bank lay about
_her_.
Yah!--Women is precious like cats, ony jest while you strokes 'em they
purr.
Lor', to think wot a butterfly beauty I was when I started, old pal!
Natty cane, and a weed like a hoop-stick, and now!--oh, well, jigger
that gal!
Cut me slap in the Strand ony yesterday, CHARLIE, so 'elp me,
she did.
Well, of sech a false baggage as Loo is, yours truly is jolly well rid.
Wot a thing this yer Ochre is, CHARLIE! The yaller god rules
us all round.
Parsons patter of poverty's pleasures! I tell yer they ain't to be
found.
If you 'aven't the ha'pence you're nothink; bang out of it, slap up
a tree.
That's a moral, as every man as is not a mere mug must agree.
They talks of "the Masses and Classes,"--old Collars is red on that
rot!--
There is ony two classes, old pal, them as 'as it and them as 'as not.
The Ochre, I mean, mate, the spondulicks, call the dashed stuff wot
you please.
It's the Lucre as makes Life worth livin', without it things ain't
wuth a sneeze.
O CHARLIE, I wish I'd got millions! I _ought_ to be rich, and no kid.