ELIZA KICKS UP A LARK IN THE STOOP

Kiss me blind cheeks,

you slinks and

slags and goggle-eyed

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 mish-hopper

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 cover-me 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 1-14, 2007