He's just a damn monkey. Who do you think came up with these tricks? Do you think he taught himself the minuet? That he went to a dressmaker and got himself a gown? That he put on a uniform and started to march?

In proper cadence, mind you. I'll give him that. He keeps a beat well enough. And once I've taught him a trick, he'll do it to a faretheewell: he goes behind his little stage dressed as a musketeer and comes out subito presto in a wig and gown. You show me another monkey who could that in half the time.

Still, if it was up to him, all he'd do is that tumble at the end. The one where he shows his bottom. And wouldn't you know, that's what the crowd likes best. Here I am, teaching him his opening bow, showing him how to shoulder a musket, taking him through his dance steps, and what does the crowd go wild for? A sight of his hairy bottom.

That's what craft's come to, these days, That's how low we've fallen, here in the fair. Why I should be glad it's him getting all the laughs, and me still counting the coppers they throw at his feet. The way today's crowds are, soon they'll be asking me to show my own bottom. And damned if there aren't days I'd be glad to oblige.