The Christmas adjournment found Mr. Wood still suspended - Sydney paper.

Now, I calls it a fair knock out,
   An' I puts it to you as a bloke
(Said Peter the Pug),
An' I ain't no mug,
   But it's gettin' too much of a joke.
'Ere's one o' that M.P. push,
   A bloke with the moniker Wood
Gits 'eaved from the 'Ouse
'Cos 'e happened to rouse;
   An' they won't let 'im back till 'e's good.


No, they won't 'ave 'im back in the 'Ouse -
   In the 'Ouse where their feelins' is 'urt,
But this bloke they'll acquit,
If 'e smoodges a bit,
   An' I ses that this pref'rince is dirt!


'Cos w'y? - An' I puts it to you
   As a bloke 'oo 'as battled a treat -
There's a lor when they rouse
An' go crook in the 'Ouse,
   An' a lor fer the chap in the street.
Whenever I go on a tear -
   (An' I owns to me seasons of lash) -
An' lands in the jug,
Fer chiackin' a mug,
   Well, it's quod, if I'm short of the cash.


Now this 'coot as was chucked on 'is neck
   'E wus wunct at the 'ead o' the p'leece -
The bos o' the cops -
O' th eblessed John 'Ops,
   As is 'ere fer preservin' the peace.
An' frum 'is persition o' power
   'E sooled all 'is Johns on to us,
An' when we wus copped
Well, the lor never stopped
   Till the Beaks 'ad a say in the fuss.


Meself an' a  cobber o' mine,
   We gets on a bit of a jag,
W'ich ends in a row
With a eatin'-house Chow
   An', o' course, in a mo' it wus lag.
We spends a 'ole night in the cells,
   Nex' mornin' we faces "the Chair,"
Who gives us a look
Like a rabbit gone crook,
   An' calls us "a ruffianly pair."


"Insultin' be'avior" it wus;
   Fer we never dealt stoush to the Chow.
(The perticuler word
As the cop said 'e 'eard
   Wasn't used, I kin swear, in that row.)
So, when we wus arst fer to plead,
   I looks at the beak where 'e sat,
An' I ses to the Lor,
"Sir, we bofe will wifdror
   An' erpolergise full to Ah Fat."


Well, the Johns nearly fell in a fit,
   An' the Bench 'e went pink to 'is ears,
An' 'e looks at me stern.
"Now I move we adjourn,"
   I remarks, "fer a couple o' years.
Fer I 'ave to git back to me job,
   An' late sittin's," I ses, "is no joke."
"'Old yer tongue!" ses the beak;
"Thirty bob or a week!"....
   An' we bofe took it out - bein' broke.


Now, this is me point - (an' I 'old
   That the game isn't all on the square) -
This cove they calls Wood
'As it all to the good
   When 'e slings orf 'is mag at the Chair.
'E'll say as 'e didn't mean 'arf;
   'E's sorry; an' that ends the row.
But me and me pard,
We does seving days 'ard
   Jes' fer givin' back chat to a Chow!


An' a push is a push all the time,
   In the 'Ouse or in Woolloomooloo.
But us blokes 'as to learn,
'Oo speaks out of our turn,
   There's a stretch fer "insultin'" to do.
As fer Wood - well, the game isn't fair;
   Fer this Liberal push 'as a pull;
They kin tork an'....Well, struth!
In me innercent youth
   I respected the Lor; but I'm full!


An' I'd like to get inter the 'Ouse -
   in the 'Ouse where "insultin'" is cheap;
Where it's stoush on the nod,
Wif no subsekint quod.
   It's a place as ud soot me a 'eap.

"Den"
The Bulletin, 4 January 1912, p13