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 Street cat!
He's the cat we all greet as we walk down the street.
In his coat of fastidious black.
No common-place 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.
When I'm seen in a hurry there's probably curry
At the Siamese or at the Glutton.
When 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 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.
Tootle Pip!
