(_By a Sufferer from the Modern Laundry System._)
Rub-a-rub-rub!
Three ghouls at a tub:
Our shirts and our collars they savagely scrub.
The fronts they make bagged,
The wristbands quite jagged,
And send home our linen all rotten and ragged!
Scrub-a-scrub-scrub!
Three fiends at a tub:
In chemical bleachings they dabble and grub.
Our shirts each bespatters
Then brush them to tatters.
The wearers get mad as March hares or as hatters!
Rub-a-scrub-scrub!
Three hags at a tub:
They scrape with a wire-brush, and pound with a club!
Smash buttons, burst stitches,
And--swell Laundry riches!
_Who'll save us from this cauldron-tub's dread Three Witches?_
* * * * *
The Stock Exchange, _Mr. Punch_ understands, has gone into politics.
With a view to test the knowledge of the brokers who "proceshed" to
the Guildhall, he asks them,--What is the Commission upon Evicted
Tenants? All sellers, no buyers.
* * * * *
Transcriber's Note:
Sundry broken punctuation has been corrected.