MEN labor against the hames, and sweat till they’re old and gray,
supporting the stall-fed dames who idle their years away. We’ve bred up
a futile race of women who have no care, except for enameled face, or a
sea-green shade of hair, who always are richly gowned and wearing
imported lids, who carry their poodles ’round, preferring the pups to
kids. And husbands exhaust their frames, and strain till their journey’s
done, supporting the stall-fed dames, who never have toiled or spun.
We’re placed in this world to work, to harvest our crop of prunes;
Jehovah abhors the shirk, in gown or in trouserloons. The loafers in
gems and silk are bad as the fragrant vags, who pilfer and beg and bilk,
and die in their rancid rags. The loafers at bridge-whist games, the
loafers at purple teas, the hand-painted stall-fed dames, are chains on
the workers’ knees. The women who cook and sew, the women who manage
homes, who have no desire to grow green hair on enameled domes, how
noble and good they seem, how wholesome and sane their aim, compared
with that human scream, the brass-mounted, stall-fed dame!
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