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 we walk 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'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

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'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

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 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