Those Wet Easter Blues

The Ayster was wit, as yer Anner my know it;
But jooty is jooty, I couldnt forgo it.
   So the mob in the dock wid the woebegone faces
   Is fruits of me zale in a dozen odd places.
The first won, yer Anner, is kane on the cricket
Who tells me hes battin upon a wit wicket,
   An sits in the mud sinkin noggins uv gin
   But I cudnt sthand that, so I roon the mahn in.

The second yer Anner, is mad as a hatter,
For he sings in the rain where it comes spitter-spatter,
   An plays a dumb choon on his wit tinnis racket.
   An him in white sand-shoes an yella striped jacket,
No trousers at all, save a pair av short knickers;
A choschoom outfacin the shickest av shickers.
   An him in flood wather near up to his chin.
   But I cudnt sthand that; so I roon the mahn in.

The nixt wan, yer Anner, is mad for the hockey,
Dhressed half like a haythen an half like a jockey.
   Theyre under the mud! he sez, Hit for the bubble!
   I batoned his bane an he gave me no throuble.
The nixt is a fisherman.  Shure he was ravin
Out there in the deluge - offensive behavin!
   Dry-fly sishin! he yells; an him soaked to the skin.
   But I cudnt sthand that; so I roon them both in.

If the Binch will belave me, theyre all av a feather;
Some twinty-odd crazy min up there together,
   All sportsmin an athlicks bamboozled an chayted
   For rain thro the holidays niver abated.
So, in view of the wetness I recommend laynience;
For Aysters so damp is a great inconvaynience.
   They had brains av a sort till the wethers got in;
   So I upheld me offis be roonin thim in.