Bustopher Jones is not skin and bones,
In fact, he's remarkably fat.
He doesn't haunt pubs, he has eight or nine clubs,
For he's the St. James's Street Cat!
He's the cat we all greet as he walks down the street
In his coat of fastidious black:
No commonplace mousers have such well-cut trousers
Or such an impeccable back.
In the whole of St. James's the smartest of names is
The name of this Brummell of cats;
And we're all of us proud to be nodded or bowed to
By Bustopher Jones in white spats!
My visits are occasional to the Senior Educational
And it is against the rules
For any one cat to belong both to that
And the Joint Superior Schools.
For a similar reason, when game is in season
I'm found not at Fox's, but Blimp's;
I am frequently seen at the gay Stage and Screen
Which is famous for winkles and shrimps.
In the season of ven'son I give my ben'son
To the Pothunter's succulent bones;
And just before noon's not a moment too soon
To drop in for a drink at the Drones.
When I'm seen in a hurry there's probably curry
At the Siamese or at the Glutton;
If I look full of gloom then I've lunched at the Tomb
On cabbage, rice pudding and mutton.
In the whole of St. James's the smartest of names is
The name of this Brummell of cats;
And we're all of us proud to be nodded or bowed to
By Bustopher Jones in white,
Bustopher Jones in white,
Bustopher Jones in white spats.
So, much in this way, passes Bustopher's day,
At one club or another he's found.
It can be no surprise that under our eyes
He has grown unmistakably round.
He's a twenty-five pounder, or I am a bounder,
And he's putting on weight every day:
But I'm so well preserved because I've observed
All my life a routine; and I'd say
I am still in my prime: I shall last out my time.
That's the word from this stoutest of cats.
It must and it shall be spring in Pall Mall
While Bustopher Jones wears white,
Bustopher Jones wears white,
Bustopher Jones wears white spats!
Toodle-pip!
