It Isn't Cricket

Hello, old cobber.  Well, what's on your mind?
You're lookin' awful gloomy and mysterious
Done in your dough?  The horses been unkind?
 Nobody ill?  I hope it's nothin' serious.
Aw, don't be funny.  Foreign what?  Affairs?
Well, they ain't happ'nin' this side of the Murray.
Nothin' in my young life, them blighters' cares,
Why go so far away to look for worries?

What?  League o' Nations?  Look, you ain't allowed
Them sort of jokes.  There's nothin' goin' to happen.
I lose no sleep about that comic crowd
A lot of glum old gaspots, always yappin'
Most of 'em foreigners! . . . Aw, boy, wake up!
That paper talk don't cause my blood to curdle . . .
Time we was concentratin' on the Cup.
Dam politics.  What's fancied for the hurdle?

World politics?  A grown-up cove like you!
Doin' your block that way!  It's childish!  Reely!
I know a dozen foreign coves, I do
All ignorint.  Not edjicated freely,
Like me an' you; an' - you know - insular.
Reel narrer-minded . . . Sport?  They couldn't stick it
No staminer. They ain't built like we are . . .
Aw, let's talk somethin' sensible, like cricket.

War? . . . Listen to him!  Ain't you wise to war?
  Just politicians' talk - coves of that kidney ...
Eh?  Troopships?  Headin' Melbourne way?  What for? ...
Perish the crows?  They've just bombarded Sydney? ...
Look, this is murder!  What's the bloomin' game?
Sydney?  My brother?  All my wife's relations!
Bombarded! ... Here; some coot must take the blame!
Where's the police?  Where's this here League o' Nations?