The Printing House Towel

When I think of the towel, The old-fashioned towel, That used to hang up by the printing-house door, I think that uobody. Iu these days of shoddy, Can hammer out iron to wear as it wore. The tramp who abused it, The devil who used it, The comp who got at it when those two were goue, The make-up and foreman, The editor, poor man, Each rubbed some grim off for the heap they put on. In, over, and under. 'Twas blacker than thunder ; 'Twas harder than poverty, rougher than sin, From the roller suspended, It never was bended. And it flapped on the wall like a banner of tin. It grew thicker and rougher. And harder and tqugher, And daily put on a more inkier hue; Until one windy morning, Without any warning, It feil to the floor aud was uroken in two.