Chorus of Tipstaves—Act III.

"Yer Washout, Cast Yer Mayoral Eyes."
You washout, cast your Mayoral eyes
Upon this pair of bobsydies.
We nabbed 'em as they put the nips
Inter Farmer Hayseed's grips,
And boned a 'are from out a snare,
And lugged 'em 'ere, Mister Mayor.
Gadzooks! Proceed and sock it at 'em,
Six months 'ard—the blighters—drat 'em!
That'll cure 'em: that'll 'eal 'em.
Fiat justitia ruat coelum.

Or rather, dump 'em in the stocks
On bread and water: give 'em socks!
Yes, now they're landed high and dry,
Don't adjourn it sine die.
Don't 'ave any qualms about 'em.
Put the boot in statim: stoush 'em,
Right here in this Mayoral revel.
Reformative's the very devil!
Stock's the thing to make 'em feel glum.
Fiat justitia ruat coelum.

Yer washup, on our knees we state
That peine forte's out of date,
The boot has gone. The giddy rack
Has got the governmental sack.
No more the thumbscrew's soft embrace
Makes dewdrops down the cheek to race.
The stocks' the thing, we do submit—
Pro bono publico prosit—
So word us to the stocks to wheel 'em.
Fiat justitia ruat coelum.