Then the bars of yer cage bustes out like a lot of scent fountings a-play—
'Taint oder colong, though, by hodds; sulphur strong seems the local bokay.
They call this the "Needle Bath," CHARLIE. It give me the needle fust off;
'Cos the spray would git into my eyes, and the squelch made me sputter and cough.
Then they wrop you well up in 'ot towels, and leave yer five minutes to bake,
And that's the "Aix Douche," as they call it. I call it the funniest fake
In the way of a bath I 'ave met with; but, bless yer, it passes the time,
And I shan't want a tub for a fortnit when back in Old Babbylon's grime.
Dull 'ole, this 'ere 'Arrygate, CHARLIE! The only fair fun I can find
Is watching the poor sulphur-swiggers, a-gargling and going it blind.