The Song of a Wife, which is Mrs. Solomon’s.
Let him praise me with the words of his mouth; for his flattery is
sweeter than wine and his kisses are rarer than orchids.
Lo, my Beloved, thy hair is as stubble, and in the morning it standeth
aloft, as a shorn wheat field.
Thy cheek is as a Turkish towel, which caresseth mine.
Thy temples are a shining light, which resembleth a silver polish
advertisement.
Thou wearest a derby hat. Thy breath is sweet with cloves.
How _fascinating_ art thou in pajamas, when thy face is covered with
shaving lather!
How beautiful are thy _feet_.
Behold, thou art a collection of habits. Yea, unto these thou art more
constant than the _family cat_.
Whatsoever thou hast done before, _that_ shalt thou do forever and in
the _same way_.
Thou kissest me once in the morning, once in the evening, and _twice_
upon Christmas Day.
Thou clingest unto thine old pipe as unto thy _reputation_. Thou
callest every woman by the _same_ pet name.
Lo, what would my Beloved _be_ without his habits? Even as a doggie’s
tail which hath lost its “wag”! But thy _heart_, oh, my Beloved, is
full of lightning changes. Its capacity is inexhaustible.
The memory of yesterday’s kiss is unto thee as the memory of
yesterday’s dinner--sweet, but not satisfying.
Yet, though thy heart changeth many times, I, thy wife, am become _one_
of thy habits!
Behold thou hast placed “Mrs.” upon my name; thou hast glorified me
with a wedding ring!
Therefore, I am become thy doormat. Yea, I am as thy footstool.
I shall mend thy socks with rejoicing, and the replacing of thy buttons
shall be my delight.
All the days of thy life, shall I clean thy safety razor and put the
studs in thy shirts.
Then, cast thine ashes over my dressing table and strew my carpets with
cigar stumps.
Let the awnings of mine house be burned and my lace curtains consumed
with fire. I shall not murmur.
For I am my Beloved’s and there is _naught else_ like unto him.