I know that he told how I snared his soul With a snare which bled him to death.
And all the men loved him,
And most of the women pitied him.
But suppose you are really a lady, and have delicate tastes,
And loathe the smell of whisky and onions.
And the rhythm of Wordsworth's "Ode" runs in your ears,
While he goes about from morning till night Repeating bits of that common thing; "Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?" And then, suppose:
You are a woman well endowed,
And the only man with whom the law and morality Permit you to have the marital relation Is the very man that fills you with disgust Every time you think of it—while you think of it Every time you see him?
That's why I drove him away from home To live with his dog in a dingy room Back of his office.
