'Ere's September! 'Oliday at last!
Off to Margit--mean to go it fast.
Mustard-coloured togs still fresh as paint,
Like to know who's natty, if _I_ ain't.
Got three quid; have cried a go with Fan,
Game to spend my money like a man.
But sticking tight to one gal ain't no fun--
Here's no end of prime 'uns on the run;
Carn't resist me somehow, togs and tile
All A 1--make even swell ones smile.
Lor! if I'd the ochre, make no doubt
I could cut no end of big pots out.
Call me cad? When money's in the game,
Cad and swell are pooty much the same.