Classic Poem

A FUR-COLLARED coat and a stick and a ring,
 And a chimney-pot hat to the side—that's me!
I'm a music-hall singer that never could sing;
 I'm a sort of a fellow like that, do you see?

I go pretty high in my line, I believe,
 Which is comic, and commonplace, too, maybe.
I was once a job-lot, though, and didn't receive
 The lowest price paid in the biz., do you see?

For I never could get the right hang of the trade;
 So the managers wrote at my name, “D.B.,”
In the guide-books they keep of our business and grade,
 Which means—you'll allow me— damned bad , do you see?

But a sort of a kind of a pluck that's mine
 Despised any place save the top of the tree.
I needed some rubbing before I could shine,
 Some grinding, and pruning, and that, do you see?

So I practised my entrance—a kind of half-moon,
 With a flourishing stride and a bow to a T,
And the bark and the yelp at the end of the tune,
 The principal things in my biz., do you see?

Oh, it's business that does it, and blow all the rest!
 The singers ain't in it alongside of me;
They trust to their voices, but I know what's best—
 Smart business, like clockwork and all, do you see?

I'm jolly, and sober, and fond of my wife;
 And she and the kids, they're as happy as me.
I was once in a draper's; but this kind of life
 Gives a fellow more time to himself, do you see?