O — the stale old dogs who pretend to guard
the morals of the masses,
how smelly they make the great back-yard,
wetting after everyone that passes.
If a man goes by who doesn’t give
a damn for their dirty kennels,
how they rush out and want to rive
him to pieces, the good-hearted spaniels!
And the young, the modem and jaunty young,
how scared they all are, even now
of the yellow dogs, how they slink away
in silence from the great bow-wow!
When a low bull-mongrel starts declaiming,
there’s not a young man in the whole
of England with the guts to turn round on him, aiming
a good kick at his dirty old hole.