Wot’s jist plain stoush wiv us, right ’ere to-day,
Is “valler” if yer fur enough away. 
Some time, some writer bloke will do the trick
Wiv Ginger Mick,
Of Spadger’s Lane.  ’E’ll be a Romeo,
When ’e’s bin dead five ’undred years or so.

Fair Juli-et, she gives ’er boy the tip. 
Sez she:  “Don’t sling that crowd o’ mine no lip;
An’ if you run agin a Capulet,
Jist do a get.” 
’E swears ’e’s done wiv lash; ’e’ll chuck it clean. 
(Same as I done when I first met Doreen.)

They smooge some more at that.  Ar, strike me blue! 
It gimme Joes to sit an’ watch them two! 
‘E’d break away an’ start to say good-bye,
An’ then she’d sigh
“Ow, Ro-me-o!” an’ git a strangle-holt,
An’ ’ang around ’im like she feared ’e’d bolt.

Nex’ day ’e words a gorspil cove about
A secret wedding; ’an they plan it out. 
’E spouts a piece about ’ow ’e’s bewitched: 
Then they git ’itched. 
Now, ’ere’s the place where I fair git the pip! 
She’s ‘is ofr keeps, an’ yet ’e lets ’er slip!

Ar! but’e makes me sick!  A fair gazob! 
’E’s jist the glarsey on the soulful sob,
‘E’ll sigh and spruik, an’ ’owl a love-sick vow—­
(The silly cow!)
But when ’e’s got ‘er, spliced an’ on the straight
‘E crools the pitch, an’ tries to kid it’s Fate.

Aw!  Fate me foot!  Instid of slopin’ soon
As ’e was wed, off on ’is ’oneymoon,
‘Im an’ ’is cobber, called Mick Curio,
They ’ave to go
An’ mix it wiv that push o’ Capulets. 
They look fer trouble; an’ it’s wot they gets.

A tug named Tyball (cousin to the skirt)
Sprags ’em an’ makes a start to sling off dirt. 
Nex’ minnit there’s a reel ole ding-dong go—­
’Arf round or so. 
Mick Curio, ’e gets it in the neck,
“Ar rats!” ‘e sez, an’ passes in ’is check.

Quite natchril, Romeo gits wet as ’ell. 
“It’s me or you!” ’e ‘owls, an’ wiv a yell,
Plunks Tyball through the gizzard wiv ’is sword,
’Ow I ongcored! 
“Put in the boot!” I sez.  “Put in the boot!”
“’Ush!” sez Doreen..."Shame!” sez some silly coot.

Then Romeo, ’e dunno wot to do. 
The cops gits busy, like they allwiz do,
An’ nose around until ’e gits blue funk
An’ does a bunk. 
They wants ’is tart to wed some other guy. 
“Ah, strike!” she sez.  “I wish that I could die!”

Now, this ’ere gorspil bloke’s a fair shrewd ’ead. 
Sez ’e “I’ll dope yeh, so they’ll think yer dead.” 
(I tips ‘e was a cunnin’ sort, wot knoo
A thing or two.)
She takes ’is knock-out drops, up in ’er room: 
They think she’s snuffed, an’ plant ’er in ’er tomb.

Then things gits mixed a treat an’ starts to whirl. 
‘Ere’s Romeo comes back an’ finds ’is girl
Tucked in ‘er little coffing, cold an’ stiff,
An’ in a jiff,
’E swallows lysol, throws a fancy fit,
‘Ead over turkey, an’ ’is soul ’as flit.