The Gun's Lament

I meets a bloke up Bourke Street way --
   A cove I uster know
When I was battlin' with the push
   A good few year ago.
"'Ow is it, lad?" I sez to 'im.
   Sez 'e, "They're blanky 'Uns!"
"'Oo is?" sez I.  "M.P.'s," sez 'e.
  "They're goin' to tax the guns."
"Talk sense!" I tells 'im.  "You're all wrong.
   They don't mean guns like you.
But guns that gits discharged, you know.
   Things ain't so bloomin' blue."
"They ain't?" sez 'e.  "Too true they ain't.
   Why strike!  The luck is prime!
I never been discharged, not once;
   But sent up every time."