Dear Polly,—These are pooty times, and don't you make no herror.
They gives me twists, though I am called the Tottenham Court Road Terror,
Along of quantities of pluck, and being such a dasher;
But now the papers bring hus news as spiles yer mornin' rasher.
"Labour is looking up, you bet!" So sez Sam Jones, our neighbour.
"I'm glad to 'ear it, Sam," sez I. "But, Sammy, wot is Labour?"
Sam gives his greasy curl a twist, and looks seven ways for Sunday.
Bit bosky, Sam, thick in the clear, as usual on Saint Monday.
"Labour!" I sez, "Oh, shoo fly, Sam! You 'orny-'anded codgers—
Your palm's as soft as putty, Sam—are reglar Artful Dodgers.