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THE MUDDLE PUDDLE PORTER

There was a railway porter on the North South Eastern Line,
Where intellect was limited whose age was forty-nine,
His pest was situated at Muddle Puddle Junction,
The station's names he called out indistinctly--but with unction,
And all the porter had to do thro' morning noon and night,
Was to waggle to and fro a wretched bell with all his might,
And shout the sentence in a manner which you must know,
Change here for London, Chatham, Peckham, Brighton, Margate, Bow.

He thought in all his thirty years of service it was strange,
His wages never were increased, 'twas time to make a change,
He meant to try another calling earlier or later,
So went at once to Spiers & Ponds' who turned him to a waiter,
But in his new vacation, he in trouble quickly got,
The first old gentleman who came, required a dinner hot,
And asked, what are joints, he said the joints sir, yes sir, oh!
The joints are London, Chatham, Peckham, Brighton, Margate, Bow.

He got dismissed and went away in misery and pain
Determined that he never would be a waiter again,
Still he knew his troubles would make life much shorter,
He'd still remain the Muddle Puddle Railway Porter
And having got his berth again--his spirits did revive;
With pride and joy he waited till till the first train did arrive.
He rang his bell and shouted out, with vigour and ease,
Two beefs, a kidney and potatoes, Jelly and a cheese

At last the station master said, this sort of thing won't do,
He'd send the Irish Mail to smash and call it Irish stew,
We like originality, but do not want a dreamer,
The porter went as cabin boy, on board a river steamer,
His duties they were simple for he only had to shout
Instructions from the Captain when the boat was turned about,
But when she neared Temple Pier, he bellowed down below,
Change here, the joints are Hackney, Kidney Peckham Jelly, Bow,

The captain said this cabin boy, is really far too droll
We stand as little chance of reaching Lambeth as the pole,
So ouce again the porter exercised his former functions,
Of wagging to and fro the bell at the Muddle Puddle Junction,
The recollection of his former duties proved too strong.
For when the afternoon express came clattering along,
He nautically shouted this extraordinary yarn,
Go on ahead, oh ease her, back her, turn her starn

This proved the climax of the porter in his pleasing way,
The managing directors said this sort of thing won't pay,
They pensioned off their servant, with a fitting honorarium,
And made him hall porter at the Westminster Aquarium,
Aad now if anyone inquires with condescending smile,
The way to see the Octopus, he answers in his style
Down here for kidneys, Stepney, stop her jelly, Brighton, Peas,
The tanks are Hackney, turn her starn, potatoes, Chatham, cheese.