Well bless my ’eart and call me Cromwell! The yank election ’as come to an end at last. Isn’t it wonderful? A new leader across the pond. And without even cutting off the ’ead of the old president! Blimey, those Americans sure know ’ow to pick a ruler, don’t they? Did it with class they did. I only wish I knew ’oo they picked.
It’s my own fault, that is. Time and time again Mr. Greystone ’e told me not to bleed on ’is things, but I never listen. So until I clean every last speck off ’is brick, ’e won’t utter one word to me about a winner. In my defense, chaps, I didn’t know I was bleedin’ at the time, as I’d made the unwise decision to faint on the sidewalk in front of ’is ’ouse. I don’t see why ’e should ’old it against me. The front stoop is ’ardly inside the ’ouse. And my blood can’t be that ’ard to clean off, being as though I’m right iron deficient.
No bother. I’ll ’ave my ’appy news soon enough. Mr. Greystone won’t lend me even a toothbrush what to clean with, but I’m doing just fine with my finger and spit and good ’ard scrubbing. Except my finger ’urts like ’ell and there seems to be more blood than before now.
To ’appier days, America! Enjoy your new president, ’ooever ’e is!
