Alf’s Eighth Bit

Vex not thou the banker's mind (His what?) with a show of sense, Vex it not, Willie, his mind, Or pierce its pretence On the supposition that it ever Was other, or that this cheerful giver Will give, save to the blind. Come not anear the dark-browed sophist Who on the so well-paid ground Will cheerfully tell you a fist is no fist, Come not here With 2 and 2 making 4 in reason, Knowest thou not the truth is never in season In these quarters or Fleet St.? In his eye there is death, I mean the banker's, In his purse there is deceit, It is he who buys gold-braid for the swankers And gives you Australian iced rabbits' meat In place of the roast beef of Britain, And leaves you a park bench to sit on If you git off the Embankment. This is the kind of tone and Solemnity That used to be used on the young, My old man got no indemnity But he swaller'd his tongue. Like all his class was told to hold it in those days, To mind their ‘p’s’ and their ‘q’s’ and their ways An' be thankful for occasional holidays. I don't quite see the joke any more, Or why we should stand to attention And lick the dirt off the floor In the hope of honourable mention From a great employer like Selfridge Or a buyer of space in the papers. I'm getting too old for such capers.