We’re living at the cloisters

We've moved into a 'ouse, such a dinky little 'ouse!
Ma said it would be a crying shame
If we called it Number Two down the Swagger Avenue.
Our mansion ought to have a classy name.
The next-door folks are calling theirs "The Oaks."
It's "The Maples" over the way.
So down upon the gate we've got "The Cloisters" on the plate,
An' we look at it an' proudly say:

We're all livin' at The Cloisters. That's what we call out home.
It's clois ter The Crown. It's clois ter The Plough.
It's clois ter The Anchor an' The Old Dun Cow.
The Cloister's clois ter the brewery. We can all smell what they brew.
And we shan't care tuppence when the rent day comes,
'Cause we're clois ter the workhouse, too.

Our villa might 'ave been "Hollywood" or "Ivy League,"
"The Moated Grange," or something quite as grand,
But I thought "The Cloisters" great when I saw it on the plate,
So I bought it quick for fourpence second-hand.
I screwed it on, and rubbed it till it shone,
Whilst the neighbours call it "Good Lor!
It looks all right, old bean, but what the dickens does it mean?"
So I jobbed(?) it on the front street door.