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 meet as he walks 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 a 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 Venison I give my Benison, To the Pothunter’s succulent bones. And just before noon, 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 a 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, Butsopher 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 me life a routine and I’d say… I am still in me prime, I shall last out my time.
That’s the word from the stoutest of cats!
And 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!!!
Macavity!