Dull November! Didn't land that lot.
Fear my father's son is going to pot.
Fan jest passed me, turned away 'er eyes,
Guess she ranked me with the _other_ guys,
Nobby larks upon the ninth, my joker;
But it queers a chap to want the ochre.
Nothing like a crowd for regular sprees,
Ain't it fine to do a rush, and squeeze?
Twig the women fainting! Oh, it's proper!
Bonnet buffers when the blooming copper
Can't get near yer nohow. Then the fogs!
Rare old time for regular jolly dogs.
If a chap's a genuine 'ot member,
He _can_ keep the game up in November!