MUSINGS ON MILK-CANS.
When I travel up to London by an early morning train
Or return into the country when the day is on the wane,
At the smallest railway station
There's a dreadful demonstration
Which causes me unmitigated pain.
I'm aware that milk is needed for our infant girls and boys;
That it aids adult dyspeptics to regain "digestive poise";
But I've never comprehended
Why its transport is attended
By the maximum of diabolic noise.
I admit the railway porter who can deftly twirl a can
In each hand along the platform is no ordinary man;
But what kills me is the banging
And the clashing and the clanging
As he hurls them in or hauls them from the van.
Now if some new material for these vessels could be found—
Non-metallic and in consequence a silencer of sound—
There would be within our borders
Fewer nerve and brain disorders
And more of moral uplift to go round.
I know a dashing journalist, a credit to his trade,
Who's always in the thick of it whenever there's a raid.
Bombs of various sorts and sizes
He describes and analyses,
But he can't endure a long milk-cannonade.
I've written to our Member, Dr. Philadelphus Snell,
To ask a question in the House—I think he'd do it well—
If our cows' nerves should be mangled
By the way their milk is jangled;
And, if he doesn't play, I'll try Ginnell.