RHYMES OF THE UNDERGROUND.
The Ealing trains run frequently,
The Ealing trains run fast;
I stand at Gloucester Road and see
A many hurtling past;
They go to Acton, Turnham Green,
And stations I have never seen,
Simply because my lot has been
In other places cast.
The folk on Ealing trains who ride
They, pitying, bestow
On me a look instinct with pride;
But I would have them know
That, while on Wimbledonian plains
My humble domicile remains,
I have no use for Ealing trains,
Though still they come and go.
Conversation of the moment in a City restaurant:—
Regular Customer (looking down menu). "Waiter, why is cottage pie never on now?"
Waiter. "Well, Sir, since this 'ere shortage of 'ouses we ain't allowed to make 'em any more."