Here’s a tight one, cullies,
here’s a wooly-crown, a right
Sir Quibble-Queere, tricked out
in caster and farting-crackers,
flashing his cod-fambles, fop-
mincing down Feather-bed Lane.
Tip me a Gage of fogus,
yer honour, I says,
dandles outstretched.
Away with you, you bran-
faced brim, says he
and pikes off, the broad-
bound badge-cove,
glim in hand, marvellous eager
to yam on quacking-cheats
at some Mumpers Hall
with every gill-flurt, foyst,
wet-quaker and dilly-mop
in town. It won’t fadge
to have him worm’d here
with yelpers on the prowl
but I gives a whindle, draws
a check’d wiper off him
and toutes his munns.
May the Flap-dragon get yer,
yer prigging Frig-pig, I calls
after him, and wishes him
before dark’s through.