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;
  For patter’s like love-letters, CHARLIE, too long and too frequent, they
    cloy. 
  I agree there with Samivel Veller.  My echoes I’ve no wish to stop,
  But I’d jest like to say ‘tisn’t me as is slopping’ all over the shop.

  It do give me the ditherums, CHARLIE, it makes me feel quite quisby snitch,
  To see the fair rush for a feller as soon as he’s found a good pitch. 
  Jest like anglers, old man, on the river; if one on ’em spots a prime swim,
  And is landing ’em proper, you bet arf the others’ll crowd about him.

  But there’s law for the rodsters, I’m told, CHARLIE; so many foot left and
    right;
  And you’ll see the punts spotted at distance, like squodrons of troops at
    a fight. 
  But in Trade, Art, and Littery lines, CHARLIE, ’anged if there’s any fair
    play,
  And the “cullerable himitation” is jest the disgrace of the day.

  Sech scoots scurryfunging around on the gay old galoot, to go snacks
  In the profits of other folks’ notions, have put you, old pal, in a wax. 
  Never mind their shenanigan, CHARLIE; it don’t do much hurt, anyhow;
  I was needled a trifle at fust, but I’m pooty scroodnoodleous now.

  I’m all right and a arf, mate, I am, and ain’t going’ to rough up, no
    fear! 
  Becos two or three second-hand ’ARRIES is tipping the public stale beer. 
  The old tap’ll turn on now and then, not too often, and as for the rest,
  The B.P. has a taste for sound tipple, and knows when it’s served with
    the best.

  If mine don’t ’old its own on its merits, then way-oh! for someone’s
    as does! 
  All cop and no blue ain’t my motter; that’s all tommy-rot and buz-wuz. 
  The pace of a yot must depend on her lines and the canvas she’ll carry;
  If rivals can crowd on more sail, wy they’re welcome to overhaul ’ARRY.

* * * * *

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