booze,
Them lords with shiny shirt-fronts, and their patent-leather shoes.
But you'd best look jolly meek
When you're up afore the beak,
For they hustle you, and bustle you, and treat you like a dog.
And its 'Olloway for you
For a month or may be two,
Where the Widow keeps a mansion and purvides you with your prog.

It was 'ero 'ere and 'ero there, I might 'ave been a King,
For to 'ear 'em 'ip 'urraying as I stepped into the ring,
When I faced the Tipton Slasher, me and 'im in four-ounce gloves,
Just to make us look as 'armless as a pair o' bloomin' doves.
Then I bruises 'im and batters,
And 'e cuts my lips to tatters,
And I gives 'im 'alf a dozen where 'is peepers ought to be.
And 'e flattens out my nose
With a brace of bally blows,
Which I 'ardly 'ad expected from a pug as couldn't see.

Next round the Slasher's groggy, 'e 'angs 'is 'ands and gropes
(I'd knocked him orf 'is legs at last) a-feelin' for the ropes.
And, lor, 'e looked so cheerful with 'is face a mask of red
That I bust myself with laughin' when I bashed 'im on the 'ead.
Then they counted up to ten,
But 'e couldn't rise again;
'E gasped a bit, and puffed a bit, and laid there in a 'eap.
And I copped a thousand pounds
For a fight of seven rounds,
Which was all the time it took me for to put my man to sleep.