THE NEWEST TALE OF A TUB.
(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 baggéd,
The wristbands quite jaggéd,
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. |