"Demand and Supply!" So economists cry,

And one, they assure us, must balance the other.

I fancy their doctrines are just all my eye,

But then I'm a victim of bad times and bother.

At least, friend Aquarius, you'll understand

That Jack Frost and you have between you upset me.

You are down on me—ah! like a shot—with Demand,

But as to Supply—ah! that's just where you get me.

Water? You frosty old fraud, not a drop,

Save what I have purchased from urchins half frozen,

I've had for six weeks for my house and my shop,

And they tell me the six weeks may swell to a dozen!

Call that Water-Supply, Mister Mulberry Nose?

Why, your oozy old eyelids seem winking in mockery,

My cisterns are empty, my pipes frozen close,

I've nothing for washing my hands, clothes or crockery.

As to flushing my drain-pipes, or sinks, why you know,

I might as well trust the Sahara for sluicing.

A bath? Yes, at tuppence a pailful or so.

Good gracious! we grudge every tumbler we're using.

Your stand-pipes and tanks compensate for such pranks?

Get out! You are playing it low down, Aquarius.

Be grateful for mercies so small, Sir? No thanks!

My wrongs at your hands have been many and various.

But these last six weeks, Sir, are just the last straw

That break the strong back of the rate-paying camel,

I do not quite know what's the state of the law,

But if yours is all freedom, and mine is all trammel,

If yours is Demand, and mine is not Supply,

As 'twould seem by the look of that precious rate-paper,

Aquarius, old boy, I have plans in my eye

For checking your pretty monopolist caper.

Pay up, and look pleasant? Ah yes, that's my rule

For every impost, from Poor Rate to Income.

But paying for what you don't get fits a fool,

Besides, you old Grampus-Grab, whence will the tin come?

Supply discontinued? Aquarius, that threat,

Is losing its terrors. I don't care a penny,

'Twon't frighten me now into payment, you bet,

When for the last six weeks I haven't had any.

Whose fault? Well, we'll see. But at least you'll agree

When Supply's undertaken, and paid, in advance, for,

A man expects something for his L. S. D.

Then what have you led me this doose of a dance for?

That question, old Snorter, demands a prompt answer,

And Taurus expects it of you, my Aquarius,

Or else, Sir, by Gemini, I shall turn Cancer,

And then the monopolists mayn't look hilarious.

How do the Water Rates come to my door?

'Twould furnish a subject for some brand-new Southey.

Your dunning Demand Notes are always a bore,

But when one is grubby, half frozen and drouthy,

When cisterns are empty and sinks are unflushed,

And staircases sloppy, and queer smells abounding,

To be by an useless Aquarius rushed

For "immediate payment" is—well, it's astounding.

How will the water come down through the floor

When mains are unfrozen and pipes are all "busting"?

Why spurting and squirting, with rush and with roar,

The wall-papers staining, the fire-irons rusting,

And rushing, and gushing, and flashing and splashing,

And making a sort of Aix douche of the bedroom,

And comfort destroying, and every hope dashing,

And leaving one scarce a square yard of dry head-room.

'Twill leak, spirt and trickle, and, oh such a pickle

Will make of my dwelling, from garret to basement,

Well, that's after thaw. But, by Jove, it does tickle

My fancy, and fill me with angry amazement,

To see you mere standing ice-cool, and demanding

Prompt payment—for what? Why, long waterless worry!

Aquarius, we must have a fresh understanding;

Till then—"Call again!" and don't be in a hurry!