No Club, mate, for me; that means money, and rules, sportsman
form, and sech muck.
I likes to pick out my own pals, go permiskus, and trust to
pot-luck.
A rush twelve-a-breast _is_ a gammock, twelve squeakers a going
like one;
But "rules o' the road" dump you down, chill yer sperrits, and
spile all the fun.
The "Charge o' the Light Brigade," CHARLIE? Well, mugs will keep
spouting it still;
But wot _is_ it to me and my mates, treadles loose, and a-chargin'
down 'ill?
Dash, dust-clouds, wheel-whizz, whistles, squeakers, our 'owls,
women's shrieks, and men's swears!
Oh, I tell yer it's 'Ades let loose, or all Babel a busting
down-stairs.
Quiet slipping along in a line, like a blooming girl's school on
the trot,
May suit the swell Club-men, my boy, but it isn't _my_ form by a
lot.
Don't I jest discumfuddle the donas, and bosh the old buffers as
prowl
Along green country roads at their ease, till they're scared by my
squeak, or my 'owl?
My "alarm" _is_ a caution I tell yer; it sounds like some shrill
old macaw,
Wot's bin blowed up with dynamite sudden; it gives yer a twist in
the jaw,
And a pain in the 'ed when you 'ear it.
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