The Songs of a Sentimental Bloke | Page 5

to say
About the play?


I'm off me beat. But when a bloke's in love
'Is thorts turns 'er way,
like a 'omin' dove.
This Romeo 'e's lurkin' wiv a crew--
A dead tough crowd o'
crooks--called Montague.
'Is cliner's push--wot's nicknamed
Capulet--
They 'as 'em set.
Fair narks they are, jist like them
back-street clicks,
Ixcep' they fights wiv skewers 'stid o' bricks.
Wot's in a name? Wot's in a string o' words?
They scraps in ole
Verona with the'r swords,
An' never give a bloke a stray dog's chance,

An' that's Romance.
But when they deals it out wiv bricks an' boots

In Little Lon., they're low, degraded broots.
Wot's jist plain stoush wiv us, right 'ere to-day,
Is "valler" if yer fur
enough away.
Some time, some writer bloke will do the trick
Wiv
Ginger Mick,
Of Spadger's Lane. 'E'LL be a Romeo,
When 'e's bin
dead five 'undred years or so.
Fair Juli-et, she gives 'er boy the tip.
Sez she: "Don't sling that crowd
o' mine no lip;
An' if you run agin a Capulet,
Jist do a get."
'E
swears 'e's done wiv lash; 'e'll chuck it clean.
(Same as I done when I
first met Doreen.)
They smooge some more at that. Ar, strike me blue!
It gimme Joes to
sit an' watch them two!
'E'd break away an' start to say good-bye,

An' then she'd sigh
"Ow, Ro-me-o!" an' git a strangle-holt,
An' 'ang
around 'im like she feared 'e'd bolt.
Nex' day 'e words a gorspil cove about
A secret wedding; 'an they
plan it out.
'E spouts a piece about 'ow 'e's bewitched:
Then they git
'itched.
Now, 'ere's the place where I fair git the pip!
She's 'is ofr
keeps, an' yet 'e lets 'er slip!
Ar! but'e makes me sick! A fair gazob!
'E's jist the glarsey on the
soulful sob,
'E'll sigh and spruik, an' 'owl a love-sick vow--
(The

silly cow!)
But when 'e's got 'er, spliced an' on the straight
'E crools
the pitch, an' tries to kid it's Fate.
Aw! Fate me foot! Instid of slopin' soon
As 'e was wed, off on 'is
'oneymoon,
'Im an' 'is cobber, called Mick Curio,
They 'ave to go

An' mix it wiv that push o' Capulets.
They look fer trouble; an' it's
wot they gets.
A tug named Tyball (cousin to the skirt)
Sprags 'em an' makes a start
to sling off dirt.
Nex' minnit there's a reel ole ding-dong go--
'Arf
round or so.
Mick Curio, 'e gets it in the neck,
"Ar rats!" 'e sez, an'
passes in 'is check.
Quite natchril, Romeo gits wet as 'ell.
"It's me or you!" 'e 'owls, an'
wiv a yell,
Plunks Tyball through the gizzard wiv 'is sword,
'Ow I
ongcored!
"Put in the boot!" I sez. "Put in the boot!"
"'Ush!" sez
Doreen..."Shame!" sez some silly coot.
Then Romeo, 'e dunno wot to do.
The cops gits busy, like they allwiz
do,
An' nose around until 'e gits blue funk
An' does a bunk.
They
wants 'is tart to wed some other guy.
"Ah, strike!" she sez. "I wish
that I could die!"
Now, this 'ere gorspil bloke's a fair shrewd 'ead.
Sez 'e "I'll dope yeh,
so they'll THINK yer dead."
(I tips 'e was a cunnin' sort, wot knoo

A thing or two.)
She takes 'is knock-out drops, up in 'er room:
They
think she's snuffed, an' plant 'er in 'er tomb.
Then things gits mixed a treat an' starts to whirl.
'Ere's Romeo comes
back an' finds 'is girl
Tucked in 'er little coffing, cold an' stiff,
An'
in a jiff,
'E swallows lysol, throws a fancy fit,
'Ead over turkey, an'
'is soul 'as flit.
Then Juli-et wakes up an' sees 'im there,
Turns on the water-works an'
tears 'er 'air,
"Dear love," she sez, "I cannot live alone!"
An' wiv a

moan,
She grabs 'is pockit knife, an' ends 'er cares...
"Peanuts or
lollies!" sez a boy upstairs.
VI. The Stror 'at Coot
Ar, wimmin! Wot a blinded fool I've been!
I arsts meself, wot else
could I ixpeck?
I done me block complete on this Doreen,
An' now
me 'eart is broke, me life's a wreck!
The dreams I dreamed, the dilly
thorts I thunk
Is up the pole, an' joy 'as done a bunk.
Wimmin! O strike! I orter known the game!
Their tricks is crook,
their arts is all dead snide.
The 'ole world over tarts is all the same;

All soft an' smilin' wiv no 'eart inside.
But she fair doped me wiv 'er
winnin' ways,
Then crooled me pitch fer all me mortal days.
They're all the same! A man 'as got to be
Stric' master if 'e wants to
snare 'em sure.
'E 'as to take a stand an' let 'em see
That triflin' is a
thing'e won't indure.
'E wants to show 'em that 'e 'olds command,

So they will smooge an' feed out of 'is 'and.
'E needs to make 'em feel 'e is the boss,
An' kid 'e's careless uv the
joys they give.
'E 'as to make 'em think 'e'll feel no loss
To part wiv
any tart 'e's trackin' wiv.
That all their pretty ways is crook pretence

Is plain to any bloke wiv common-sense.
But when the birds is nestin' in the spring,
An' when