HE world 'as got me snouted jist a treat; ⁠
⁠Crool Forchin's dirty left 'as smote me soul;
An' all them joys o' life I 'eld so sweet
⁠Is up the pole.
Fer, as the poit sez, me 'eart 'as got
The pip wiv yearnin' fer—I dunno wot.

I'm crook; me name is Mud; I've done me dash;
⁠Me flamin' spirit's got the flamin' 'ump!
I'm longin' to let loose on somethin' rash….
⁠Aw, I'm a chump!
I know it; but this blimed ole Springtime craze
Fair outs me, on these dilly, silly days.

The young green leaves is shootin' on the trees,
⁠The air is like a long, cool swig o' beer,
The bonzer smell o' flow'rs is on the breeze,
⁠An' 'ere's me, 'ere,
Jist moochin' round like some pore, barmy coot,
Uv 'ope, an' joy, an' forchin destichoot.

​I've lorst me former joy in gittin' shick,
⁠Or 'eadin' browns; I 'aven't got the 'eart
To word a tom; an', square an' all, I'm sick
⁠Uv that cheap tart
'Oo chucks 'er carkis at a feller's 'ead
An' mauls 'im… Ar! I wish that I wus dead!…

Ther's little breezes stirrin' in the leaves,
⁠An' sparrers chirpin' 'igh the 'ole day long;
An' on the air a sad, sweet music breaves
⁠A bonzer song—
A mournful sort o' choon thet gits a bloke
Fair in the brisket 'ere, an' makes 'im choke….

What is the matter wiv me?… I dunno.
⁠I got a sort o' yearnin' 'ere inside,
A dead crook sort o' thing that won't let go
⁠Or be denied—
A feelin' like I want to do a break,
An' stoush creation for some woman's sake.

The little birds is chirpin' in the nest,
⁠The parks an' gardings is a bosker sight,
Where smilin' tarts walk up an' down, all dressed
⁠In clobber white.
An', as their snowy forms goes steppin' by,
It seems I'm seekin' somethin' on the sly.

​Somethin' or someone—I don't rightly know;
⁠But, seems to me, I'm kind o' lookin' for
A tart I knoo a 'undred years ago,
⁠Or, maybe, more.
Wot's this I've 'eard them call that thing?… Geewhizz!
Me ideel bit o' skirt! That's wot it is!

Me ideel tart!… An', bli'me, look at me!
⁠Jist take a squiz at this, an' tell me can
Some square an' honist tom take this to be
⁠'Er own true man?
Aw, Gawd! I'd be as true to 'er, I would—
As straight an' stiddy as… Ar, wot's the good?

Me, that 'as done me stretch fer stoushin' Johns,
⁠An' spen's me leisure gittin' on the shick,
An' 'arf me nights down there, in Little Lons.,
⁠Wiv Ginger Mick,
Jist 'eadin' 'em, an' doin' in me gilt.
Tough luck! I s'pose it's 'ow a man is built.

It's 'ow Gawd builds a bloke; but don't it 'urt
⁠When 'e gits yearnin's fer this 'igher life,
On these Spring mornin's, watchin' some sweet skirt—
⁠Some fucher wife—
Go sailin' by, an' turnin' on 'is phiz
The glarssy eye—fer bein' wot 'e is.

​I've watched 'em walkin' in the gardings 'ere—
⁠Cliners frum orfices an' shops an' such;
The sort o' skirts I dursn't come too near,
⁠Or dare to touch.
An' when I see the kind o' looks they carst…
Gawstruth! Wot is the use o' me, I arst?

Wot wus I slung 'ere for? An' wot's the good
⁠Uv yearnin' after any ideel tart?…
Ar, if a bloke wus only understood!
⁠'E's got a 'eart:
'E's got a soul inside 'im, poor or rich.
But wot's the use, when 'Eaven's crool'd 'is pitch?

I tells meself some day I'll take a pull
⁠An' look eround fer some good stiddy job,
An' cut the push fer good an' all; I'm full
⁠Uv that crook mob!
An', in some Spring the fucher 'olds in store,
I'll cop me prize an' long in vain no more.

The little winds is stirrin' in the trees,
⁠Where little birds is chantin' lovers' lays;
The music uv the sorft an' barmy breeze….
⁠Aw, spare me days!
If this 'ere dilly feelin' doesn't stop
I'll lose me block an' stoush some flamin' cop!