KINCHEN FOR THE HALTER
wuz born devil brung up bad a norphan, me lord, wiv no famly cept clyfakers n old prigs i wuz a good buz in London traffickin in back parlours at doors of spells we’d ‘ustle a rum stall in the push i useter draw a reader or wiper from the cly of ‘is petersham, ramp ‘im of ‘is montra from ‘is garret n sting a swell mollisher for ‘er ‘addock stuffed with beans, fancy articles, frisk ‘er cly for ‘er fogle, pick the marks out wiv a needle they wuz prime flats i fenced the swag for a few quid but i wuz a rank spoon in them days an’ outan’out at staines one darky, when Oliver was down, me n me palls wuz wackin’ the blunt in some lushken lawks, some crosscove must’ve blown upon us and give music to the traps an ‘orney wuz staggin’ us n done call the rollers i wuz knapped seven pen’worth for puttin’ me forks down n causin’ devil n all ov trouble lagged
strike me blind if i wuzn’t faked a transport alonger some Park’urst lads to some infernal island of bruisin’ rocks off of Port Arfur Point Puer, they calls it a precious dull ‘ole crawlin’wiv flashkiddies sneakin’ about like sick rats wiv not much wittles bein’ fly, wuz to be prenticed a mechanic a joiner, turnin’ mallets n belayin’ pins my eye, plummy agin’ them labourin’ gangs pushin’ bricks i know’d that i should’ve looked scarce but they cut me thirty stripes on the breech for fibbin’ the coveys me, i’m a nullin’ cove acos my mauleys are lightnin’ quick like me temper n i ain’t one to stand no blabbin’ got thirty lashes for abscondin’, next time i’ll do solitary stow that gammon, yer pebble, they says but i can’t be got over they pound it i wouldn’t keep the drop up, couldn’t ‘scape Jack Ketch i’d be frummagemed on the threelegged mare i’ll show’em i’ll ‘ave the pull on ‘em yet or may my bones rot in hell n burn my body
Michael Small
January 2428, 2004