Good Mr. Ware came down with all his men,
And filled the house with lovely oily pails,
And went away to lunch at half-past ten,
And came again at tea-time with some nails,
And laid a ladder on the daffodil,
And opened all the windows they could see,
And glowered fiercely from the window-sill
On me and Mrs. Tompkinson at tea,
And set large quantities of booby-traps
And then went home--a little tired, perhaps.

They left their paint-pots strewn about the stair,
And switched the lights off--but I knew the game;
They took the geyser--none could tell me where;
It was impossible to wash my frame.
The painted windows would not shut again,
But gaped for ever at the Eastern skies;
The house was full of icicles and rain;
The bedrooms smelled of turpentine and size;
And if there be a more unpleasant smell
I have no doubt that that was there as well.

My wife went out and left me all alone,
While more men came and clamoured at the door
To strip the house of everything I own,
The curtains and the carpets from the floor,
The kitchen range, the cushions and the stove,
And ask me things that husbands never know,
"Is this 'ere paint the proper shade of mauve?"