Just a little dissertation upon one side of a sorry holiday season. The scene is a police court; and Constable O’X testifies as follows:

The Ayster was wit, as yer Anner my know it;
But jooty is jooty, I couldn’t forgo it.
   So the mob in the dock wid the woebegone faces
   Is fruits of me zale in a dozen odd places.
The first won, yer Anner, is kane on the cricket
Who tells me he’s battin’ upon a wit wicket,
   An’ sits in the mud sinkin’ noggins uv gin
   But I cudn’t sthand that, so I roon the mahn in.

The second yer Anner, is mad as a hatter,
For he sings in the rain where it comes spitter-spatter,
   An’ plays a dumb choon on his wit tinnis racket.
   An’ him in white sand-shoes an’ yella striped jacket,
No trousers at all, save a pair av short knickers;
A choschoom outfacin’ the shickest av shickers.
   An’ him in flood wather near up to his chin.
   But I cudn’t sthand that; so I roon the mahn in.

The nixt wan, yer Anner, is mad for the hockey,
Dhressed half like a haythen an’ half like a jockey.
   “They’re under the mud!” he sez, “Hit for the bubble!”
   I batoned his bane an’ he gave me no throuble.
The nixt is a fisherman.  Shure he was ravin’
Out there in the deluge –- offensive behavin’!
   “Dry-fly sishin’!” he yells; an’ him soaked to the skin.
   But I cudn’t sthand that; so I roon them both in.

If the Binch will belave me, they’re all av a feather;
Some twinty-odd crazy min up there together,
   All sportsmin an’ athlicks bamboozled an’ chayted
   For rain thro’ the holidays niver abated.
So, in view of the wetness I recommend laynience;
For Aysters so damp is a great inconvaynience.
   They had brains av a sort till the wethers got in;
   So I upheld me offis be roonin’ thim in.

"Den"
Herald, 24 April 1935, p6