The Songs of a Sentimental Bloke | Page 2

song--
A mournful sorter choon thet gits a bloke
Fair in the brisket
'ere, an' makes 'im choke ...
What is the matter wiv me?...I dunno.
I got a sorter yearnin' 'ere
inside,
A dead-crook sorter thing that won't let go
Or be denied--

A feelin' like I want to do a break,
An' stoush creation for some
woman's sake.
The little birds is chirpin' in the nest,
The parks an' gardings is a
bosker sight,
Where smilin' tarts walks up an' down, all dressed
In
clobber white.
An', as their snowy forms goes steppin' by,
It seems
I'm seekin' somethin' on the sly.
Somethin' or someone--I don't rightly know;
But, seems to me, I'm
kind er lookin' for
A tart I knoo a 'undred years ago,
Or, maybe,
more.
Wot's this I've 'eard them call that thing?...Geewhizz!
Me
ideel bit o' skirt! That's wot it is!
Me ideel tart!... An', bli'me, look at me!
Jist take a squiz at this, an'
tell me can
Some square an' honist tom take this to be
'Er own true
man?
Aw, Gawd! I'd be as true to 'er, I would
As straight an' stiddy
as...Ar, wot's the good?

Me, that 'as done me stretch fer stoushin' Johns,
An' spen's me leisure
gittin' on the shick,
An' 'arf me nights down there, in Little Lon.,

Wiv Ginger Mick,
Jist 'eadin' 'em, an' doing in me gilt.
Tough luck!
I s'pose it's 'ow a man is built.
It's 'ow Gawd builds a bloke; but don't it 'urt
When 'e gits yearnin's
fer this 'igher life,
On these Spring mornin's, watchin' some sweet
skirt
Some fucher wife--
Go sailin' by, an' turnin' on his phiz
The
glarssy eye--fer bein' wot 'e is.
I've watched 'em walkin' in the gardings 'ere
Cliners from orfices an'
shops an' such;
The sorter skirts I dursn't come too near,
Or dare to
touch.
An, when I see the kind er looks they carst...
Gorstrooth!
Wot is the use o' me, I arst?
Wot wus I slung 'ere for? An wot's the good
Of yearnin' after any
ideel tart?...
Ar, if a bloke wus only understood!
'E's got a 'eart:

'E's got a soul inside 'im, poor or rich.
But wot's the use, when
'Eaven's crool'd 'is pitch?
I tells meself some day I'll take a pull
An' look eround fer some good,
stiddy job,
An' cut the push fer good an' all; I'm full
Of that crook
mob!
An', in some Spring the fucher 'olds in store,
I'll cop me prize
an' long in vain no more.
The little winds is stirrin' in the trees,
Where little birds is chantin'
lovers' lays;
The music of the sorft an' barmy breeze...
Aw, spare
me days!
If this 'ere dilly feelin' doesn't stop
I'll lose me block an'
stoush some flamin' cop!
II. The Intro
'Er name's Doreen ...Well spare me bloomin' days!
You could er
knocked me down wiv 'arf a brick!
Yes, me, that kids meself I know
their ways,
An' 'as a name for smoogin' in our click!
I just lines up

an' tips the saucy wink.
But strike! The way she piled on dawg! Yer'd
think
A bloke was givin' back-chat to the Queen....
'Er name's
Doreen.
I seen 'er in the markit first uv all,
Inspectin' brums at Steeny Isaacs'
stall.
I backs me barrer in--the same ole way--
An' sez, "Wot O! It's
been a bonzer day.
'Ow is it fer a walk?"...Oh, 'oly wars!
The sorter
look she gimme! Jest becors
I tried to chat 'er, like you'd make a start

Wiv ANY tart.
An' I kin take me oaf I wus perlite.
An' never said no word that wasn't
right,
An' never tried to maul 'er, or to do
A thing yeh might call
crook. Ter tell yeh true,
I didn't seem to 'ave the nerve--wiv 'er.
I
felt as if I couldn't go that fur,
An' start to sling off chiack like I used...

Not INTRAJUICED!
Nex' time I sighted 'er in Little Bourke,
Where she was in a job. I
found'er lurk
Wus pastin' labels in a pickle joint,
A game
that--any'ow, that ain't the point.
Once more I tried ter chat 'er in the
street,
But, bli'me! Did she turn me down a treat!
The way she
tossed 'er 'cad an' swished 'er skirt!
Oh, it wus dirt!
A squarer tom, I swear, I never seen,
In all me natchril, than this 'ere
Doreen.
It wer'n't no guyver neither; fer I knoo
That any other bloke
'ad Buckley's 'oo
Tried fer to pick 'er up. Yes, she was square.
She
jist sailed by an' lef' me standin' there
Like any mug. Thinks I, "I'm
out er luck,"
An' done a duck
Well, I dunno. It's that way wiv a bloke.
If she'd ha' breasted up ter
me an' spoke,
I'd thort 'er jist a commin bit er fluff,
An' then fergot
about 'er, like enough.
It's jest like this. The tarts that's 'ard ter get

Makes you all 'ot to chase 'em, an' to let
The cove called Cupid get an
'ammer-lock;
An' lose yer block.

I know a bloke 'oo knows a bloke 'oo toils
In that same pickle
found-ery. ('E boils
The cabbitch storks or somethink.) Anyway,
I
gives me pal the orfis fer to say
'E 'as a sister in the trade 'oo's been

Out uv a jorb, an'