I met a girl the other day,
A girl with golden tresses,
Who wore the most bewitching air,
And daintiest of dresses.
I gazed at her with kindling eye
And admiration utter--
Until I saw her silken skirt
Was trailing in the gutter!
"What senseless style is this?" I thought;
"What new sartorial passion?
And who on earth stands sponsor for
The idiotic fashion?"
I've asked a dozen maids or more,
A tailor and his cutter,
But no one knows why skirts are made
To drag along the gutter.
Alas for woman, fashion's slave;
She does not seem to mind it.
Her silk or satin sweeps the street
And leaves no filth behind it.
For all the dirt the breezes blow
And all the germs that flutter
May find a refuge in the gowns
That swish along the gutter.
What lovely woman wills to do
She does without a reason.
To interfere is waste of time,
To criticise is treason.
Man's only province is to work
To earn his bread and butter--
And buy her all the skirts she wants
To trail along the gutter.