Dear Charlie,
Ascuse shaky scribble; I'm writing this letter in bed.
Went down to the Square, mate,—last Sunday,—and got a rare clump on the 'ed.
Beastly shame, and no error, my pippin! Me cop it! It's too jolly rum.
When a reglar Primroser gits toko, one wonders wot next there will come.
It wos all Bobby's blunder, in course; Mister Burleigh and me was "mistook."
I went jest for a lark, nothink else, and wos quietly slinging my 'ook,
Wen a bit of a rush came around me, a truncheon dropped smack on my nob,
And 'ere I ham, tucked up in bed, with a jug of 'ot spruce on the 'ob.
'Ard lines, ain't it, Charlie, old hoyster? A barney's a barney, dear boy,