Washaway

Mother's in the kitchen steaming up the window panes

Smell of boiling cabbage comes up from an open drain

But no amount of scrubbing could ever shift a gravy stain



Washaway washaway washerette

Washaway washaway every dirty stain you get



Streets lay deserted

No one feels exerted

Sat on their couches

With loose change in their pouches

They couldn't spend it if they tried



In comes mr softee

Dressed up like and ice cream cone

Ringing for his supper

Heading for a stately home

But a thousand yorkshire puddings

Couldn't make his business boom



See how they wander

To kill time in droves they squander

Money in centres

That feed on the mind, oh bother

It just gets you down



Washaway washaway washerette

Business as usual at the uptown launderette



Washaway washaway the dirt

Wash it

Washaway the dirt


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