Wy even poor Molly pricked up 'er froze ears at this "Whistler-like picter of Fireworks in Fogland."
As old One-heye called it, wotever 'e meant. But it 'ad its effect though, for torches come flaring,
And voices come 'owling across the damp flats, to inquire wot it was that still neighbourhood scaring.
"Wy Huncle!!!" a sharp little nipper voice squeaks as the party drew nigh. Cries old Brock, "Wot, young Teddy!"
We wasn't a bow-shot away from the 'ouse where old One-heye was due, and the Guy-games all ready,
Though boshed by the fog! Talk of larfter and liquor! I don't think I ever felt dryer, or wetter,
But of both them taps, larf and lap, I don't care if on no Guy Fox night I don't get more, or better!