But even yer Fancy Dress Balls, and yer lectures by ANNIE BESANT,
All about Hastral Bodies and Hether, seems not always _quite_ wot
yer want
To wile away time arter dinner. So thanks to that
gent--six-foot-four!--
Who fair cuts the record as Droring-Room M.C.--of course
_hammytoor_.
Then we've conjurors, worblers, phrenologists! One 'ad a go at
_my_ chump.
'E touzled my 'air up tremenjus, and said I'd no hend of a bump
Of somethink he called "Happrybativeness." Feller meant well, I
suppose,
But I didn't quite relish his smile, nor his rummy remarks on my
nose.
When a tall gurl as pooty as paint, and with cheeks like a
blush--rose in bloom,
'As 'er lamps all a-larf on yer face, and a giggle goes round the
whole room,
'Tisn't nice to sit square on a chair, with a feller a-sharpening
'is wit
On your nob, and a rumpling your 'air till it's like a birch-broom
in a fit!
One caper we 'ad, on the lawn, wos a spree and no error, old man.
They call it a "Soap-Bubble Tournyment." Soapsuds, a pipe, and a
fan,
Four six--foot posts stuck in the ground with a tape run
around--them's the "props,"
And lawn-tennis ain't in it for larks. Oh, the ladies did larf,
though tip-tops!
Bit sniffy fust off.
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