* * * * *
[Illustration: "BE A GOOD BOY AND STOP YOUR 'OLLERIN, AND I'LL LET YER SEE
THE OLD GENT FALL ORF THE BUS."]
* * * * *
SICK.
Dear MR. PUNCH,--Excuse this tosh,
But I've succumbed to measles (Bosch),
And all my dreary hours are spent
Inside a vast and gloomy tent.
So, as I'm feeling rather blue,
I thought I'd better write to you.
All known diseases here you'll find
(This letter's steamed, you needn't mind);
But in my tent there's only one,
I'm glad to say, viz., measles (Hun).
The Nurses all are Scotch and stout,
So are the drinks I do without;
I don't complain of lack of fruit--
At least we don't get arrowroot--
Nor have I even ever seen a
Single plate of semolina.
So life is not so bad, you see,
Except for chlorine in the tea.
I think that's all, so now will end,
Hoping this finds you, dearest friend,
Just as it leaves me, in the pink
(My rash is not quite gone, I think).
* * * * *
"Now those precious divisions have to be hurled into the furnace to
avert a veritable landslide.
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