Ninety odd in the shade as I write, I've a 'ed, and a thunderin' thust.
Can't go on the trot at this tempryture, though I'm on 'oliday still;
So I'll pull out my eskrytor, CHARLIE, and give you a touch of my quill.
If you find as my fist runs to size, set it down to that quill, dear old pal;
Correspondents is on to me lately, complains as I write like a gal.
Sixteen words to the page, and slopscrawly, all dashes and blobs. Well, it's true;
But a quill and big sprawl is the fashion, so wot is a feller to do?
Didn't spot you at 'Enley, old oyster—I did 'ope you'd shove in your oar.
We 'ad a rare barney, I tell you, although a bit spiled by the pour.
'Ad a invite to 'OPKINS's 'Ouse-boat, prime pitch, and swell party, yer know,