January! Tailor's bill comes in.
Blow that blooming snip! I'm short o' tin.
Werry much enjoyed my Autumn caper,
But three quid fifteen do look queer paper.
Want another new rig out, wuss luck,
Gurl at Boodle's bar seems awful struck,
Like to take her to the pantermime;
That and oysters after _would_ be prime.
Fan's a screamer; this top coat would blue it,
Yaller at the seams, black ink won't do it.
Wonder if old snip would spring another?
Boots, too, rayther seedy; beastly bother!
Lots o' larks that empty pockets "queer."
Can't do much on fifty quid a year.