By Wendleton the Street Urchin
‘Twere the consumption that killed JFK, if I may say so me-self. Yes, and a rightly bad case of it at that. He were in a poorly way from all the chimney sweepin’ and flim-flaming with saucy misses in the opium dens. I did warn him a-bout such things before the great charcoal riots of ’63, but he were never one to listen. I gave his bacca-pipes a shave one day, and said to him, I did, “never mind you about the moon, Sir Kennedy. Never mind you about going there. Tis like to try to grow a cabbage in a leather shoe to think of going to the moon.” And, indeed I also borrowed a wee bit of the old Bible’s words, (if you don’t mind me saying so) when I told him “it is a bloody cokum for a muck snipe to find a ha’pence these days. Why pawn your Nebuchadnezzar for a blooming glance at a Nemmo’s Nancy!” A bit o’ that I paraphrased, but the most of it came from the good book itself! O’course, after that I got nibbed by the coppers for running a slum on the speelers down by the rookery— Ah, the old rookery, when pulling an over and under for a yennab wasn’t to work capitol, if you know what I were meaning, rightly. You do know what I be meaning, correct?