One ’and cluttered up a treat—
    On me oath you wouldn’t know it
From a ’andsome plate of meat.
They had sorter pied me feet,
    And a bullet of the foe hit
    Where no decent bloke could show it.

’Arf a year they’ve botched me now;
    Ev’ry scientific schemer
In the cor’ has faked me prow,
Soled ’n’ heeled a bloke somehow—
    Gawd, the last one was a screamer.
    Wirin’ up me flamin’ femur!

Comes a guy and pipes you square,
    Gogglin’ at you through his glasses,
Swings you in the barber’s chair,
Tilts you this end up with care,
    Lets you have a whiff of gasses
    Chattin’ off-hand with the lasses.

Then he slices clean ’n’ swift,
    Like a cobbler cuts his leather,
Gives the splintered knob a lift—
S’elp me tater, it’s a gift
    How they glues you all together,
    Sayin’ it’s bin nicer weather!

Surgeon wipes his ’ands, a verse
    Chort1e softly as he pitches
Probes and sponges to the nurse,
Thinks the lunch might have bin worse;
    Close your little gap he hitches,
    Whistlin’ as he jabs the stitches.

I’m caught in with fiddle-strings,
    Stuck about with bits ’n’ patches,
Fixed with ligatures ’n’ springs,
Lath ’n’ plastered, swung in slings
    Skewered with little wooden matches,
    Hung with hinges, knobs ’n’ latches.

Till I lay behind me screen,
    Serious ’n’ sober one day,
Satisfied ’n’ all serene,
’Arf a man ’n’ ’arf machine
    What they winds up ev’ry Monday
    ’N’ it tilts all ways by Sunday.

’Ome again I’ll come, a neat,
    Semi-autymatic loafer,
Number up, ’n’ all complete,
Creakin’ round on Collins Street,
    With a licence (which I’ll owe for)
    My own car and my own shofer!