The butcher's boy whistles down Harley Street,
Whistles out of a broken heart;
His girl has jilted him, and the butcher
Sacked his job on the butcher-cart.
No girl, no job. It isn't decent
That he should whistle down Harley Street;
What right has he to keep on whistling
When life is so rotten that once was sweet?
His face shines red as a russet apple,
His walk has a swing, there's gold in his hair.
Harley Street waits for his jolly whistle,
Since life is a properly rotten affair.