ELIZA KICKS UP A LARK IN THE STOOP
Kiss me blind cheeks, you slinks and slags and goggleeyed Jack Baggers what scrouge round n make mouths! See if i blush like a blue dog! ‘Tis peppered with pocks i am, but a rum blowen what cuts a splash in me mishhopper n serves out a dish o’ red rag. Trouble they called me on the Providence. Heared Dorke, the surgeon, say The Kid Callaghan’s Report is Bad. Didn’t kibosh them officer nabs temptin’ us scabby cats into their Swell Street quarters. All colleens we was. A cat in hell needs have claws. Layed by the heels these two hours. Can’t move me drum sticks. Need a piss bad. The deuce take it! Have to water me nag! . . . Where’s me bread n water! At seven n ten i knowed life in London Town, plucking pigeons. Lay
all Lombard Street to a China orange, i should ‘ve stretched hemp for utt’ring smashed coins. They give me years. Four n ten o’em! A lifer! That’s providence for you. ‘Tis Irish assurance i have. Stubborn as a holly tree that wants a foothold and hard as a clint o’ Burren limestone. ‘Tis a burning shame this iron collar. One day i’ll be prettily rigged, bona necklace, blind sparklers, a satin gown, cap with lace, silk slippers, pink, a jem or two, stead o’ slops n coverme decent. Ajax, i’m for wat’rin’, i say! Assigned slavey to Mulgrave, a peeler nob, n absconded. i’m partial to booze, a drop o’ me partikler. Charged drunk as a besom. Whist, banged in agin! Think i’m kid leather? My eye! i’ll yet be a fine madam. John Batman’s kidded me.
Michael Small
November 114, 2007