Dear Charlie,
'Ow are you, old oyster? I'm doin' the briny, dear boy;
Got my usual fortnit, yer know, as I makes it a pint to enjoy,
Things is quisby at 'ome, and they pressed me to chuck up my annual spree,
And stand by to look arter the mater who's down with rheumatics. Not me!
Relations are that bloomin' selfish it fair gives a feller the sick,
I'm jest tidy myself, flush of tin, with no end of a thunderin' "pick,"
And now I've a chance of a outing to keep myself up to the mark,
I'm to stay in the doldrums at 'ome! It's too much of a screamin' old lark.
No, Charlie, boy, self-preservation's the fust law of Nature, yer know;