Yo’ con see ‘um on a Sat’dee,A’wundrin roun’ like sheepThey’re farces lung an’ miserableThey’re eyes art shut wi’ sleep;A’looded up wi’parcels,An’ shaping bags an’ all,While they’re misuses stand gas sin’Aroun’ the market stall. It meks me sad ted see ‘em thereA’waitstin ‘art they’re life,Jus’ dragoni round wi’ shappin’ bags,Ter please a nagging’ wife;That’s why these ‘ere men snuff itmuch suener than they should,‘Cos the treatment o’ they’re womenfolk‘As nipped ‘em in the bud. And so tons’ othe