SEPTICÆMANIA.

Observer, Volume XXVII, Issue 36, 25 May 1907, Page 23

SEPTICÆMANIA.

THE WAIL OF A HOUSEHOLDER.

Fob the Observer.

Now, kindly weep a bitter weep and shed a plaintive tear, And shriek, and groan, and sigh, and moan, and kindly lend your ear. . An Auckland citizen am I, of credit and renown, But ever since that fatal, day . When septicaemia came to stay, I've had to knuckle down. There came a chap called Townley with a notebook in his hand, He fixed me with a glassy stare, I and issued stern command ; He made me shiver like a leaf — he spoke in accents stern — He said "My lad, I'd have you know I boss creation here below, As you have got to learn." He brought his minions to the work — They chortled loud with glee? They looked as it they'd never shirk The task of crushing me. They came with buckets, spades, 'and picks, And sundry words profane ; They looked at me as if they thought I leally didn't ought to ought — My conduct gave them pain. Said I to Townley : " Kindly tell, And make the reason clear Just why you've come and brought as well These hardy ruffians here. And, should you heed my simple plaint, I'll go to Charlie Grey , t And tell him — and I think 'tis true — That all your minions — also you Should really stay away." Then Townley smole a winsome smile, And said : " I'd have you know That I, so pure and free from guile, Boss sinners here below. And since this septicaemia scare In Auckland has arisen, 'Tis very plain to me, I ween, You'll have to go, unless you're clean, To Pointon. in the prison." They spilt carbolic down my chest, They stood me on my head ; They disinfected me with zest, And spanked me till I bled. They biffed me with a baleful bifi To chase the microbes out ; They made me dance around and squeal — Their willing methods made me feel I ought to do a shout. They wrought destruction in the house In chasing after rats, And just because they saw a mouse They made me buy some cats. There's poison in the dining-room, There's poison on the stair ; There' $> poison in the kitchen grate, And everywhere, I beg to state, There's poison in the air. There's poison in the baby's cot To make the rodents die, And, now I think of it, that's what Must make the kiddy cry. There's poison in the Irish stew I swallow for my tea There's poison all around the show, And every where I chance to go There's poison laid for me.

Last night I visited the lodge, ' Convivially to roam, And, just on twelve, I did a dodge, And quietly sauntered home. But, as I put my foot inside My, sanctified front door, Upon my feet a deadly trap Cldsed down its jaws with fearful snap, And made me do a roar. With mixtures of a fearsome kind They sprinkled all the place ; What's more — it really pained my mmd — They made me wash my face. For tbo' it isn't quite a month Since last I had a wash, They made me — very sad to* sad — Exhume my face three times a day— Such cleanliness is bosh ! ■ ■ ■ They took my little puppy dog And sprayed him with carbolic, And now his wits are in a fog — He's sad and melancholic. They took my parrot off his perch And dosed him with a tonic ; He's sleepy now — I think 'tis plain That, should they do it once again, He'll get the plague bubonic. They pulled the carpets off the floors, They tore the boards asunder, They took the panels off the doors, Now why was that, I wonder ? They carried off my only clothes To disinfect the lot, And so I stay in bed because £ can't offend against the laws — They're all the clothes I've got ! They're searching all around the place, As I can hear them now, And if my clothes they'd but replace There'd be a bally row. They're crawling underneath the bouse And finding empty tins, And rags, and bones, and bottles, too, And oyster shells, and onions too, And defunct fishes' fins. They're sprinkling powder all around To massacre the fleas. If I'd my clothes — well, I'll be bound There'd- be a little breeze ! They're rummaging around the yard— They run the blessed show. And if you ask me what I think — Just weep awhile and let me wink— I'm jiggered if I know. They've put the fowls in quarantine, They've wrung the rooster's neck, And tho' I think it's rather mean 'Tis little that they reck. They've disinfected all the flies, They've sterilized the pram. The baby's bottle, too, they got, And biffed it into water hot — Oh, hear me mutter, " D n !" So kindly hear my piteous tale And wipe away a groan, And charm my optics with a wail, And weep a bitter moan. But if this septicaemia craze Should last, I beg to say That e'er they come to worry me I'll pack my traps and quickly flee From disinfectant's sway.