We trot out different ditties,
we have done since a kid,
they are not us, so cut the fuss,
we've paid our twenty quid.
We do not want a dust-up,
but, by lingo, when we do,
then, por favor, we know the score -
it's twenty smackeroo.
What, offer cups of sugar?
They're not our mugs of tea.
Let them get lost, they know the cost -
it is two thousand p.
They shave in different mirrors,
their syllables are strange.
They will not wash, so here's our dosh -
four fivers, and no change.
And no, we do not bargain -
what's ours is yours and mine.
This Bulldog Breed! Its price exceeds
You pays your English money
oh you moaning foreign minnies.
So what's our whack? I'll tell you, Jack:
one bob and nineteen guineas.