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!
They so soused, and so slapped, and so squirted me. Messing a
feller about
Don't come nicer for calling it _massage_. But there, it's O.K.
I've no doubt.

They squat you upon a low shelf, with a sort of a water-can "rose"
At the nape of yer neck, while a feller in front squirts yer down
with a 'ose.
He slaps you as though you wos batter, he kneads you as if you wos
dough,
And gives yer wot for on the spine, till you git in a doose of a