Too long have I tarried, I want to get married, To carry the burden that others have carried.
I want to be wooing and billing and cooing, And doing the same things that others are doing, And stay ai home Sundays, have cold meat on Mondays, And never to blush at the mention of "undies."
At last to be able to have my own table, And view it with pride though its legs be unstable.
To povertys danger, no longer a stranger, To bark at a wife o'er the family manger To work in the garden my muscles to harden, A bath every Sunday, oh, 1 beg pardon.
At catalogues looking and holidays booking!
And trying to stomach a novice's
And doing the carving an Cooking. "exes"
and halving.
And working all night to prevent them from starving.
And cleaning the flat out, and putting the mat out And letting the dog in and putting the cat out.
And silently creeping cos baby is sleeping Awakened at four by the fowls we are keeping.
And doing the shopping, acquaintances dropping And passing the pubs without looking or stopping.
And checking the measure of milk-men for pleasure, And cleaning the knives in my moments of leisure.
A pram to be wheeling and spuds to be peeling And mending the boots with a "doz it-now" feeling.
And dreaming of motors and blazers and boaters, While feeling' the roes of depressed looking bloaters.
But sweeping the tues is the job I refuse As I doze in the throes of Bachelor Blues.
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.