Though in green pea
Yourself you needn’t stint
In July sunny,
In Januaree
It really costs a mint—
A mint of money!
No lamb for us—
House lamb at Christmas sells
At prices handsome:
Asparagus,
In winter, parallels
A Monarch’s ransom:
When purse to bread and butter barely reaches,
What is your wife to do for hot-house peaches?
Ah! tell me that!
Ah! tell me that!
What is your wife to do for hot-house peaches?
Your heart and hand
Though at my feet you lay,
All others scorning!
As matters stand,
There’s nothing now to say
Except—good morning!
Though virtue be a husband’s best adorning,
That won’t pay rates and taxes—so, good morning!