Now I _don't_ like to look like a juggins, it's wot I carn't
stand, s'elp my bob;
But you know I ain't heasy choked off, dear old pal, when I'm fair
on the job.
So I spotted a quiet back naybrood, triangle of grass and tall
trees,
Good roads, and no bobbies, or carts. Oh, I tell yer 'twas "go as
yer please."
They call it a "Park," and it's pooty, and quiet as Solsberry Plain,
Or a hold City church on a Sunday, old man, when it's welting with
rain;
Old maids, retired gents, sickly jossers, and studyus old stodges
live there,
And they didn't like me and my squeaker a mossel; but wot did _I_
care.
When they wentured a mild remonstration, I chucked 'em a smart bit
o' lip,
With a big D or two--for the ladies--and wosn't they soon on the
skip!
'Twos my own 'appy 'unting ground, CHARLIE, until I could fair
feel my feet;
If you want to try wheels, take the Park; I am sure it'll do you a
treat.
I did funk the danger, at fust; but these Safeties don't run yer
much risk,
And arter six weeks in the Park, I could treadle along pooty brisk;
And _then_ came the barney, my bloater! I jined 'arf a dozen prime
pals,
And I tell you we now are the dread of our parts, and espessh'lly
the gals.
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