Chapter 3 No.3

Sits the plumber, man of metal.

Joining gas-pipes to a kettle.

'Neath the bed his wife is lying

Rather silent-she is dying

From some gin her husband gave her.

He's too busy now to save her.

"Things," he sings, "are looking upward;

I am making stills.

Soon we'll cook the stuff by wholesale,

Running twenty 'mills.'

What we make and how we make it

Doesn't cut no ice.

Anything you sell in bottles

Brings the standard price."