II. THE INTRO
'Er name's Doreen ...Well, spare me bloomin' days! You could er knocked me down wiv 'arf a brick! Yes, me, that kids meself I know their ways, An' 'as a name for smoogin' in our click! I just lines up 'an tips the saucy wink. But strike! The way she piled on dawg! Yer'd think A bloke was givin' back-chat to the Queen.... 'Er name's Doreen. I seen 'er in the markit first uv all, Inspectin' brums at Steeny Isaacs' stall. I backs me barrer in - the same ole way -- An' sez, "Wot O! It's been a bonzer day. 'Ow is it fer a walk?" ... Oh, 'oly wars! The sorta look she gimme! Jest becors I tried to chat 'er, like you'd make a start Wiv any tart. An' I kin take me oaf I wus perlite. An' never said no word that wasn't right, An' never tried to maul 'er, or to do A thing yeh might call croook. Ter tell yeh true, I didn't seem to 'ave the nerve -- wiv 'er. I felt as if I couldn't go that fur, An' start to sling of chiack like I used... Not intrajuiced! Nex' time I sighted 'er in Little Bourke, Where she was in a job. I found 'er lurk Wus pastin' labels in a pickle joint, A game that -- any'ow, that ain't the point. Once more I tried to chat 'er in the street, But, bli'me! Did she turn me down a treat! The way she tossed 'er head an' swished 'er skirt! Oh, it wus dirt! A squarer tom, I swear, I never seen, In all me natchril, than this 'ere Doreen. It wer'n't no guyver neither; fer I knoo That any other bloke 'ad Buckley's 'oo Tried fer to pick 'er up. Yes, she was square. She jest sailed by an' lef me standin' there Like any mug. Thinks I, "I'm out er luck," And done a duck. Well, I dunno. It's that way wiv a bloke. If she'd ha' breasted up ter me an' spoke. I'd thort 'er jist a common bit er fluff, An' then fergot about 'er, like enough. It's jest like this. The tarts that's 'ard ter get Makes you all 'ot to chase 'em, an' to let The cove called Cupid get a 'ammer-lock; An' lose yer block. I know a bloke 'oo knows a bloke 'oo toils In that same pickle found-ery. ('E boils The cabbitch storks or somethink.) Anyway, I gives me pal the orfis fer to say 'E 'as a sister in the trade 'oo's been Out uv a jorb, an' wants ter meet Doreen; Then we kin get an into, if we've luck. 'E sez, "Ribuck." O' course we worked the oricle; you bet! But, 'struth, I ain't recovered frum it yet! 'Twas on a Saturdee, in Colluns Street, An' - quite by accident, o' course -- we meet. Me pal 'e trots 'er up an' does the toff -- 'E allus wus a bloke fer showin' off. "This ere's Doreen," 'e sez. "This 'ere's the Kid." I dips me lid. "This 'ere's Doreen," 'e sez. I sez "Good day." An' bli'me, I 'ad nothin' more ter say! I couldn't speak a word, or meet 'er eye. Clean done me block! I never been so shy, Not since I was a tiny little cub, An' run the rabbit to the corner pub -- Wot time the Summer days wus dry and 'ot -- Fer me ole pot. Me! that 'as barracked tarts, an' torked an' larft, An' chucked orf at 'em like a phonergraft! Gorstrooth! I seemed to lose me pow'r o' speech. But 'er! Oh, strike me pink! She is a peach! The sweetest in the barrer! Spare me days, I carn't describe that cliner's winnin' ways. The way she torks! 'Er lips! 'Er eyes! 'Er hair! ... Oh, gimme air! I dunno 'ow I done it in the end. I reckerlect I arst ter be 'er friend; An' tried to play at 'andies in the park, A thing she wouldn't sight. Aw, it's a nark! I gotter swear when I think wot a mug I must 'a' seemed to 'er. But still I 'ug That promise she give me fer the beach. The bonzer peach! Now, as the poit sez, the days drag by On ledding feet. I wish't they'd do a guy. I dunno 'ow I 'ad the nerve ter speak, An' make that meet wiv 'er fer Sundee week! But strike! It's funny wot a bloke'll do When 'e's all out ... She's gorn, when I come-to. I'm yappin' to me cobber uv me mash.... I've done me dash! 'Er name's Doreen....An' me -- that thort I knoo The ways uv tarts, an' all that smoogin' game! An' so I ort; fer ain't I known a few? Yet some'ow ... I dunno. It ain't the same. I carn't tell wot it is; but all I know, I've dropped me bundle -- an' I'm glad it's so. Fer when I come ter think uv wot I been.... 'Er name's Doreen.
This poem was originally published in The Bulletin, 3 August 1911, p11..
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