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"A plain, blunt man, who gives a fair deal all round, but will not stand any humbug." was how Mr Baird, the Chief Secretary, described Mr W. T. Conder, the new Governor of Pentridge, today.

I think that I'll go 'ome agen
    Now that the Spring is near;
I'm sick of sights an' city streets,
    I'm sick of drinkin' beer.
I think that I'll go 'ome agen,
    For I sadly need a rest.
They say the bloke 'oo runs the joint
    Is kind. So it is best.

I think that I'll go 'ome agen,
    I dunno wot to do;
I'm reel dead sick of pitcher shows
    And pony racin', too.
I'm sick of knockin' round the streets,
    And bein' just a gun,
I think that I'll go 'ome agen
    An' 'ave a bit of fun.

Lars time I struck the Pentridge joint
    I did not like their plan;
But I've a mind to give a fly
    To this 'ere plain, blunt man.
It's just a gamble, any'ow,
    As thro' this life we roam.
If I can only work a scheme
    I think I'm goin' 'ome.

Wot is the scheme a bloke can work
    So that 'e can be pinched?
In other days I've faced the cops
    Dead game; an' never flinched,
For they were keen to get me in—
    Dead keen to 'ave me beat—
But now, when I would tork with them,
    They snub me in the street.

I'd like to meet that plain, blunt man
    'Oo gives a dead square deal;
I'd tuck down in me little cell
    An' never squeal a squeal.
But coppers ain't the cops they was,
    No matter 'ow I sin,
They won't believe I thug and thieve,
    They WILL not put me in.

I think that I'll go 'ome agen,
    But wot's a bloke to do?
I've done 'ouse breakin' regular,
    An' shot a feller, too;
But them police won't play the game,
    Their jobs they seem to shirk;
I'd like to meet that plain, blunt man,
    When cops get back to work.

I wish I could go 'ome agen,
    Now that the Spring is near;
I'm sick of crime, an' all the time,
    Two up an' drinkin' beer.
But wot's a simple bloke to do,
    'Oo's reel 'omesick, an' crook?
I think I'll jay-walk in the street,
    An' then I might be took.