text_original: how unlike to Gerard Street, Where beaux and belles in parties meet; Where gilded chairs and coaches throng, And jostle as they troll along; Where tea and coffee hourly flow, And gape seed does in plenty grow; And Griz (no clock more certain) cries, Exact at seven, "Hot mutton pies!"
text_transcription: HOW UNLIKE TO GERARD STREET WHERE BOWS AND BELLS AND PARTIES MEET WHERE GILDED CHAIRS AND COACHES THRONG AND JOSTLE AS THEY TROLL ALONG WHERE TEA AND COFFEE HOURLY FLOW AND GAPE SEED DOES IN PLENTY GROW AND GRIZ NO CLOCK MORE CERTAIN CRIES EXACT AT SEVEN HOT MUTTON PIES
phonemes: hˌaʊ ʌnlˈaɪk tə dʒɚɹˈɑːɹd stɹˈiːt, wˌɛɹ bˈoʊ ænd bˈɛlz ɪn pˈɑːɹɾiz mˈiːt; wˌɛɹ ɡˈɪldᵻd tʃˈɛɹz ænd kˈoʊtʃᵻz θɹˈɔŋ, ænd dʒˈɑːsəl æz ðeɪ tɹˈoʊl ɐlˈɔŋ; wˌɛɹ tˈiː ænd kˈɔfi ˈaʊɚli flˈoʊ, ænd ɡˈeɪp sˈiːd dˈʌz ɪn plˈɛnti ɡɹˈoʊ; ænd ɡɹˈɪz (nˈoʊ klˈɑːk mˈɔːɹ sˈɜːʔn̩) kɹˈaɪz, ɛɡzˈækt æt sˈɛvən, "hˈɑːt mˈʌʔn̩ pˈaɪz!"