English poem
I
by John Stephen Farmer (1854–1916)
The budge it is a delicate trade, And a delicate trade of fame; For when that we have bit the bloe, We carry away the game: But if the cully nap us, And the lurries from us take, O then {they rub}{he rubs} us to the whitt {And it is hardly }{Though we are not} worth a make