I’m what they calls a leary lad,
Some say my ” charakter’s” bad;
On futball I am fair dead gone,
At the game think I’m a don.
‘Tween you and me, though, on my soul,
I never yet have kicked a goal;
When t’other team begins rough play
I sneaks out of the way,
“Make a mark!” what a lark,
The ” barrackers” shout,
“Forward play, hip hooray,
Blue me! what yer ’bout ?
Go in, South; shut yer mouth
Or I’ll stoush you !”
But I’m one of the South Melbourne.
I like to “gas” in public bars
And give my rivals “jars;”
A drink I never will refuse
When “mugs” will stand me booze;
My colours, too, I like to flash,
With a ‘chippy’ do a, mash,
And tell her I have won a prize
At futball—which is lies.
Make a mark, etc.
Of course I’ve had my photo took,
And quite “ribuck” I look,
In this ‘ere attitude I stands,.
With a futball in my ‘ands.
The coloured ones costs me a bit,
To the bloke I says now ” Nit;”
He sticks me in his window though,
So, of course, I gets a show.