Take the image, you blighter.

Amn’t I what yz all need? My gammy back’s a corkscrew and me a culchie to boot. A man could lift a girl out of it, couldn’t he, if he was a good skin. But you’re Cromwell’s men all over again, ain’t ye?

Oh, yes, me spine is banjaxed to beat the band. But yz not at nothin’, are ye? Trollin’ the locals and askin’ for the girls that are bent. But you can wear your white coat and your pince-nez and jot on the paper but I seen you looking, din’t I now? Put your shift in the press and your eyes are on me proper, ain’t they?

I’m not like the ignorant savage who thinks you’re stealin’ his immortal soul through your lens; no. I know better but we’re all bent from the rickets and you put a dingy coin in my hand and for you it’s Bob’s your Uncle but for me it naught but shame and half a meal. Take the image.

I’m bent but my fanny is there and I could drop bairns like apples from a tree if our Lord and Saviour hadn’t pissed on my chips and made me a freak for such as ye.

Take your image.