But if 'tisn't alive, 'tain't chin-music, but kibosh, and corpsey at that.
Kerrectness be jolly well jiggered! Street slang isn't Science, dear pal,
And it don't need no "glossery" tips to hinterpret my chat to my gal.
I take wot comes 'andy permiskus, wotever runs sliok and fits in,
And when smugs makes me out a "philolergist,"—snuffers! it do make me grin!
Still there's fitness, dear boy, and unfitness, and some of these jossers, jest now,
Who himitate 'ARRY's few letters with weekly slapdabs of bow-wow,
'Ave about as much "fit" in their "slang" as a slop-tailor's six-and-six bags.
No, Yours Truly writes only to you, and don't spread hisself out in the Mags.
Mister P. prints my letters, occasional, once in a while like, dear boy;