Shuffling late down Vernier Street
Not far from Melbourne Road,
A thickset man named Alfie
Does slow but surely go.
He shuffles down to number nine
Where beauteous blooms do grow,
For there awaits Dot with rolling pin
As well Old Alfie knows.
But soon she throws her arms round him
And pecks him on the nose,
Her face aflush with girlish joy
A rich and healthy glow.
Till in the morn she meets Mr Brown
Who curses the so-and-sos,
Who in the night leant ‘cross the fence
To pick his prized black rose.