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 Blimp's; He is frequently seen at the gay Stage and Screen Which is famous for winkles and shrimps. In the season of venison he gives his 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 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 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 he's so well preserved because he's observed All 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 Mall While Bustopher Jones wears white spats!