Bustopher Jones: The Cat About Town

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!

His 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
He is found, not at Fox’s, but at Blimp’s;
But he’s frequently seen at the gay Stage and Screen
Which is famous for his winkles and shrimps.
In the season of venison he give his ben’son
To the Pothunter’s succulent bones;
And just before noon’s not a moment too son
To drop in for a drink at the Drones. 
When he’s seen in a hurry there’s probably curry
At the Siamese—or at the Glutton;
If he looks full of gloom then he’s lunched at the Tomb
On cabbage, rice pudding and mutton.

So, much in this way, passes Bustopher’s day—
At one club or another he’s found.
It can cause 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 he’s so well preserved because he is observed
All his life a routine, so he’ll say.
And (to put it in rhyme) ‘I shall last out my time’
Is the word of this stoutest of Cats
It must and it shall be Spring in Pall Mall
While Bustopher Jones wears white spats!