Seems to me all sentimental jor and cold chuck-out, it do. 
  They may call their big Committees, and may chat till all is blue,
  But to shift me till they gives me somethink sweeter is all rot;
  Better leave my garret winder, and the flower in the pot.

  That gerenum there looks proper; which I bought it of a bloke
  What does the “All a-blowin’!” with a barrer and a moke;
  And though tuppences is tuppences, I ain’t so jolly sure
  As to spend two-d. upon it were to play the blooming cure

  NICKY SPRIGGINS did chi-ike me.  Reglar nubbly one is NOCK,
  With about as much soft feelink as a blessed butcher’s block. 
  He’d a made a spiffing Club Swell if he’d ony ’ad the chink,
  With them lips like a ham sandwidge, and them eyes as never blink.

  And I ain’t no softy, neither, bet your buttons.  That don’t pay,
  For you’re ‘bliged to keep yer eyes peeled and to twig the time o’ day;
  But I’ve got a mash on flowers; they are better than four ’arf,
  Them red blazers in my winder; so let NOCKY ’ave his larf!

  NOCKY tells me that the Westry means a-clearin’ hout our place
  For to make a bit o’ garding, wot they calls a Hopen Space,
  O I know the sort o’ fakement, gravel walks, a patch o’ grass,
  And a sprinkle of young lime-trees of yer Thames Embankment class.

  Some bloke spots the place as likely, and praps buys it on the cheap,
  (Spekylators keeps their lids hup though the parish nobs may sleep,)
  Pooty soon the pot’s a-bilin’ about Hopen Spaces.  Yus! 
  And the chap as bought the bit o’ ground is fust to raise the fuss.

  Recreation for the People, Hopen Playgrounds for the Young! 
  That’s the patter of the platformers; and don’t they jest give tongue! 
  Well, it’s opened with a flourish, and there’s everyone content;
  Pertiklerly the landlords round as nobbles better rent.

  But I don’t object to gardings, not a’mossel—­t’other quite;
  As I’ve said, a bit of green stuff and a flower is my delight;
  I wish London wos more hopen, and more greener, and more gay;
  Only people down our Court has got to live as well as play.

  If they clears out the arf acre where we huddles orful close,
  We must all turn out, that’s certain; where we’ll turn to, goodness knows;
  And it won’t be werry spashus, the new “Park” won’t, arter all,
  With the graveyard railinks one side, and on t’other a blank wall.

  Wot we want is decent ’ouses, at a rent as doesn’t take
  ’Arf a cove’s poor screw to pay it.  That ’a the present landlord’s fake! 
  If they only knowed ’ow ’ard it is to meet “Saint Monday” square,
  When yer ealth is werry middlin’, and the jobs is werry rare!

  P’raps them Dooks, and Earls, and Marquiges, and Kernels, wot they states
  Has just clubbed theirselves together to keep down the bloomin’ Rates,
  And to smash the Kounty Kouncil, as they’ve bunnicked the Skool Board,
  Jest a few of their hodd moments to our naybrood might afford.