B-r-r-r-r! Beastliness isn't the word, CHARLIE. Language seems out of it, slap.
When I took my fust twelve ounces 'ot, from a gal with a snowy white cap,
And cheeks like a blush-rose for bloominess—well, I'm a gent, but, yah-hah!
I jest did a guy at the double, without even nodding ta-ta!
Where the Primrose Path leads to, my pippin, I'm cocksure can't 'ave a wus smell.
Like bad eggs, salt, and tenpenny nails biled in bilge water. Eugh! Old Pump Well?
Wy then let well alone, is my motter, or leastways, it would be, I'm sure,
But for BLACK—local doctor, a stunner!—who's got me in 'and for a cure.
I'm not nuts on baths took too reglar; but 'Arrygate baths ain't 'arf bad,
When you git a bit used to 'em, CHARLIE. I squirmed, though fust off, dear old lad!