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 streetIn his coat of fastidious black:No commonplace mousers have such well-cut trousersOr such an impeccable back.In the whole of St. James's the smartest of names isThe name of this Brummell of Cats;And we're all of us proud to be nodded or bowed toBy Bustopher Jones in white spats!

His visits are occasional to the Senior EducationalAnd it is against the rulesFor any one Cat to belong both to thatAnd the Joint Superior Schools.For a similar reason, when game is in seasonHe is found, not at Fox's, but Blimp's;He is frequently seen at the gay Stage and ScreenWhich is famous for winkles and shrimps.In the season of venison he gives his ben'sonTo the Pothunter's succulent bones;And just before noon's not a moment too soonTo drop in for a drink at the Drones.When he's seen in a hurry there's probably curryAt the Siamese—or at the Glutton;If he looks full of gloom then he's lunched at the TombOn cabbage, rice pudding and mutton.

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 eyesHe 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's observedAll his life a routine, so he'll say.Or, 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 MallWhile Bustopher Jones wears white spats!