(Nobody ever knew what _they'd_ be at).
Now, in position of much "greater freedom," "Pet,"
Fancy they'll badger _me_ into a hole.
One thing is certain, nobody will heed 'em, "Pet,"
_Poor little soul!_

_They_ were nice trainers and backers for you, my lad.
Pretty nigh muffed any small chance you'd got.
Square up those shoulders a little bit, _do_, my lad!
That form won't put in a slommocking shot.
Their fumbling style and contemptible flabbiness
Clings to you yet. Ah! thanks be, you've changed hands.
They'd crab our swim, but the Old Scuttler's shabbiness
BULL understands.

_We_ didn't bring you out, put you in training, "Pet,"
Or crack you up as the Coming Young Copt.
(Straighten up, boy! Such corkscrewing and craning, "Pet,"
Never a rib-roasting wunner in-popt.)
No, you 're a legacy! Would not deceive you, "Pet,"
You are a stick, and have cost a good bit.
Still we have charge of, and don't mean to leave you, "Pet,"
Till you are "fit."

Biceps? Ah, verily, feeling your muscle, "Pet,"
Isn't a job that brings SANDOW to mind.
Where would you be in a real hard tussle, "Pet"?
You're not a Pug of the wear-and-tear kind.
Foes many menace you. Champions, boy, you know,
Challenge all comers; they _have_ to--you bet.