Perhaps Saturday's best, BOB, as coming next Sunday—
Don't seem asking much, if they'd keep us alive.
You cannot imagine how grinding our trade is—
Long hours, and long waits, BOB, when custom is slack!
When the premises hold one old gent and two ladies,
'Tis hard for twelve chaps to be kept on the rack.
To knock off at five on a Saturday eases
Our week's work a little. One evening in six
Ain't more than the Public can spare—if it pleases—
If only its hours 'twill conveniently fix.