Bustopher Jones

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 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' 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
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 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' 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
 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 25 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