Classic Poem

Dear Ann—

I conjecture you'll like it no worse
If I write you this evening a letter in verse,—
But such an epistle as this, Ma'am, I tell ye—can't
Anyhow prove either pleasant or elegant,—
For writing by night—I am quite in a flurry
And nervously warm—like a dish of stewed curry.

I left Mrs Street upon yesterday morning,
(If my hand shakes—you'll know it's occasioned by yawning)
And really they used me the whole of the time
With such kindness—it can't be explained in a rhyme!
They stuffed me with puddings—chops—cutlets—and pies,
Wine and cakes (I was going to say up to my eyes
But I thought 'twas so vulgar it lacked this addition:
They crammed and they stuffed me, yea, unto repletion.)
Exceedingly careful were they of my health,
And I scarcely left home at all—saving by stealth;
—They never allowed me to walk by the river
For said they—‘Lest the fogs disagree with your liver!—’
And as for a stroll through a valley—‘'twere odds
If I went—that I didn't fall over the clods!—’
—‘Might I go and look over the Castle?’—‘Oh! Sidi
Mahommed!!—Suppose you should hap to grow giddy!
And pitch from the top over turrets and all—
Such a wap! breaking most of your bones in the fall!—’
So I stayed still at home and worked hard at my drawings,
And looked at the rooks—and sat hearing their cawings,
And walked out a little—a small pit-a-pat—
And endeavoured with heart and with soul to grow fat;
And indeed—just excepting—I sometimes am lame—
I don't seem in health or complexion the same;—
For my face has grown lately considerably fatter—
And has less the appearance of clarified batter
Than when, so malad, I left London turmoiled,
As pale as a sucking pig recently boiled.

Little Charles—I must say, seems improved on the whole—
But at books he's extremely dull—poor little soul!—
But the other child—Freddie—is noon night and morn
The most horrid young monkey that ever was born—
Such violent passions and tears in an ocean,
He kept the whole house in a constant commotion.

I now am ensconced in my favourite abode—
Which is Peppering, you know—with its sprain-ancle road;
They are all just as kind as they ever have been—
And the fields are beginning to look very green.
I have never procured yet a teal or a widgeon
But am drawing a very magnificent pigeon.
And as for my visits I'm going for to eat o-
f a dinner today with my friends at Calceto;
I leave this here place upon Saturday next,
Or on Sunday (I'll try to remember the text!—)
And stay . . .