I
Dear Bill, this stone-jug at which flats dare to rail, [1]
(From which till the next Central sittings I hail),
Is still the same snug, free-and-easy old hole,
Where Macheath met his blowens, and Wild floor'd his bowl [2]
In a ward with one's pals, not locked up in a cell, [3]
To an old hand like me it's a family hotel. [4]