The Tory: Perspectives And Poems: Dr Pratt Datta

BUSTOPHER JONES: THE CAT ABOUT TOWN 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's Street Cat! He's the Cat we all greet as he walks down the street In his coat of fastidious black: No commonplace 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! His 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. For a similar reason, when game is in season He is found, not at Fox's, but Blimp's; He is frequently seen at the gay Stage and Screen Which is famous for winkles and shrimps. In the season of venison he gives his ben'son To the Pothunter's succulent bones; And just before noon's not a moment too soon To drop in for a drink at the Drones.