1st
Rose glowing snow clouds of the Night, you teasing STRUMPETS.
Your pink tipp’d evening Décolletage spilling from your lace corsetry: all winking promises of a Torrid night, but in the morning GONE, leaving as much romance in thy wake as an empty pocket-pick’d wallet cast ‘pon the side table.
Sky o’er London - where is thy CONSCIENCE?
Why sign a contract with the weatherman & reflect the upturn’d expectation of a million hopeful faces, only to arrive empty-hand’d as soon as ye Cross Her Majesty’s Carriagway No. the 25th, having been so exceedingly Generous to the Scotch & the NORTH. Listen to their cries – STOP it Mister Ambassador, with this ten FEET you are Really SPOILING US!
Does the belch’d black breath of the red Omnibus make the streets too warm for the promis’d snow to LIE? The uninsulat’d rooftops, the burning bus-shelters of Whitehall? Do you mock those who rise, childishly Excit’d, before dawn to crack the shutters, hopeful for a decent helping of Whinge-Fodder? Why art thou so hopeless, London? Snow, Damn Ye, SNOW.
I want a good DUMP, & I want it now.
Regards, &c.
Sir J.
