You wear a silken undervest and hose
And all your garments are immaculate.
No care disturbs your leisurely estate
When you are cushioned softly for repose
In a fair chamber kept by her deft hand,
Which, you assume, God made to cleanse your room—
The hand of servitude, of mop and broom,
Of consecration to a boy's demand!

You have no purpose but to find some way
To entertain an idle mind all day
At golf or with the decorated few.
And yet, you are a man, to outward view!
A man—while women labor everywhere,
And you do naught for life but blink and stare!