For my Father

I've read this poem a dozen times and each time I get something new from it.     Poetry is funny.   So simple but yet so much like sunlight.    Always Changing.

I am sick o' wastin' leather on these gritty pavin'-stones,
An' the blasted Henglish drizzle wakes the fever in my bones;
Tho' I walks with fifty 'ousemaids outer Chelsea to the Strand,
An' they talks a lot o' lovin', but wot do they understand?
                    Beefy face an' grubby 'and —
                    Law! wot do they understand?
                    I've a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener land!
                    On the road to Mandalay . . .