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