The Moods of Ginger Mick | Page 3

wiv 'is neck,
As Ginger guv the
war-cry that is dreaded in the Lane.
An' the rest wus whirlin' toff an' sudden wreck.
Mick never reely
stoushed 'im, but 'e used 'im fer a mop.
Then someone doused the
bloomin' glim, an' Foo run fer a cop.
Down the stairs an' in the passidge come the shufflin' feet uv Chows,

An' a crash, as Ah Foo's chiner found it's mark.
Fer more than Mick
'ad ancient scores left over frum ole rows,
An' more than one stopped somethin' in the dark.
Then the tabbies
took to screamin', an' a Chow remarked "Wha' for?" While the live
ducks quacked blue murder frum their corner uv the floor.
Fer full ten minutes it was joy, reel willin' an' to spare,
Wiv noise uv tarts, an' Chows, an' ducks, an' lash;
An' plates uv fowl
an' bird's-nest soup went whizzin' thro' the air,
While 'arf-a-dozen fought to reach Foo's cash.
Then, thro' an open
doorway, three Chows' 'eads is framed in light, An' sudden in Mick's
corner orl is gentle peace an' quite.
Up goes the lights; in comes the cops; an' there's a sudden rush;
But the Johns 'as got 'em safe an' 'emmed 'em in;
An' ev'ryone looks
innercent. Then thro' the anxious 'ush
The toffs voice frum the floor calls fer a gin ...
But Mick an' Rose, 0
where are they? Arst uv the silent night! They 'ad a date about a dawg,
an' vanished out o' sight.
Then Foo an' orl 'is cousins an' the ducks torks ori at once,
An' the tabbies pitch the weary johns a tale,
'Ow they orl is puffick
ladies 'oo 'ave not bin pinched fer munce;
An' the crooks does mental sums concernin' bail.
The cops they takes
a name er two, then gathers in the toff, An' lobs 'im in a cold, 'ard cell
to sleep 'is love-quest off.
But down in Rosie's kipsie, at the end uv Spadger's Lane,
'Er an' Mick is layin' supper out fer two.
"Now, I 'ate the game," sez

Ginger, "an' it goes agin the grain;
But wot's a 'elpless, 'ungry bloke to do?"
An' 'e yanks a cold roast
chicken frum the bosom uv 'is shirt, An' Rosie finds a ducklin'
underneath 'er Sund'y skirt.
So, when a bloke fergits 'imself, an' soils a lady's name,
Altho' Romance is dead an' in the dirt,
In ole Madrid or Little Bourke
they treats 'im much the same,
An' 'e collects wot's comin' fer a cert.
But, spite uv 'igh-falutin' tork,
the fact is jist the same: Ole Ginger Mick wus out fer loot, an' played a
risky game.
To fight an' forage ... Spare me days! It's been man's leadin' soot
Since 'e learned to word a tart an' make a date.
'E's been at it, good an'
solid, since ole Adam bit the froot:
To fight an' forage, an' pertect 'is mate.
But this story 'as no moral, an'
it 'as a vulgar plot;
It is jist a small igzample uv a way ole Ginger's
got.
II. WAR
'E sez to me, "Wot's orl this flamin' war?
The papers torks uv nothin' else but scraps.
An'wot's ole England got
snake-'eaded for?
An' wot's the strength uv callin' out our chaps?"
'E sez to me, "Struth!
Don't she rule the sea?
Wot does she want wiv us?" 'e sez to me.
Ole Ginger Mick is loadin' up 'is truck
One mornin' in the markit feelin' sore.
'E sez to me, "Well, mate, I've

done me luck;
An' Rose is arstin', 'Wot about this war?'
I'm gone a tenner at the
two-up school;
The game is crook, an' Rose is turnin' cool.
'E sez to me, "'Ow is it fer a beer?"
I tips 'im 'ow I've told me wife, Doreen,
That when I comes down to
the markit 'ere
I dodges pubs, an' chucks the tipple, clean.
Wiv 'er an' kid alone up
on the farm
She's full uv fancies that I'll come to 'arm.
"'Enpecked!" 'e sez. An' then, "Ar, I dunno.
I wouldn't mind if I wus in yer place.
I've 'arf a mind to give cold tea
a go -
It's no game, pourin' snake-juice in yer face.
But, lad, I 'ave to, wiv
the thirst I got.
I'm goin' over now to stop a pot."
'E goes acrost to find a pint a 'ome;
An' meets a pal an' keeps another down.
Ten minutes later, when 'e
starts to roam
Back to the markit, wiv an ugly frown,
'E spags a soljer bloke 'oo's
passin' by,
An' sez 'e'd like to dot 'im in the eye.
"Your sort," sez Mick, "don't know yer silly mind!
They lead yeh like a sheep; it's time yeh woke -
The 'eads is makin'
piles out uv your kind!"
"Aw, git yer 'ead read!" sez the soljer bloke.
'Struth! 'e wus willin'
wus that Kharki' chap;
I 'ad me work cut out to stop a scrap.

An 'as the soljer fades acrost the street,
Mick