Why 'ello, friends! Looks like 'appy days are upon us again. Mr. Greystone, the master of the 'ouse, 'as gone and entrusted to me my very own pencil, what to write down anything I wish. At first, I thought it was me birthday! I've never 'ad so much as a farthing in all my life and now look at me: a pencil owner. Why I must look like the King 'imself! But after he given it to me, Mr. Greystone, 'e said I'm meant to write about the American presidential election. "Yes, sir!" I said to 'im. "I'll do my very best, sir!"
This might lead to a crust of bread, I shouldn't wonder.
In one month and seven days, the Americans will 'ave a new president of their very own choosing! Now, I've never been to America, or anywhere outside the East End, but I imagine they must be 'appy as clams. Two 'ole candidates to choose from? And not one of 'em the son of the monarch? 'ave you ever imagined something so wonderful in your life? You yanks must be right near pinching yourselves saying, "Am I dreamin'?"
Why I 'ear they're even given people their very own ballots this year! What I'd give to 'old one of them, even just for a moment. Probably printed on silk, they are. Printed on silk and flavored like the sweetest licorice you ever did taste, I bet.
Well, that's all I 'ave for you this morning. I 'ope this pencil lasts long enough for me to write a letter to my mum. I'm so very interested to know if she's still alive.