Dear Bill, this stone-jug,[a] at which flats dare to rail,
(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 Wylde floor’d his bowl.
In a ward with one’s pals,[c] not locked up in a cell,
To an old hand like me it’s a fam-ly[d]-hotel.
In the day-rooms the cuffins[e] we queer at our ease,
And at Darkman’s[f] we run the rig just as we please;
There’s your peck[g] and your lush, hot and reg’lar, each day.
All the same if you work, all the same if you play.