Classic Poem

'Tis the wail of the weak and the tale of the Shriek —
Which are husband and wife, understand —
Of the husband in hell: " Do be reasonable " —
In this, our hysterical land.

She goes on at full blast until often at last
To his Worship she's rattling her " fax " .
" She was pulled out of bed be the 'air of her 'ead
And chased round the yard with a haxe! "
( " She was that way , yer Washup, yer know. " )

She goes on at full blast until often at last
To his Worship she's rattling her " fax " .
" She was pulled out of bed be the 'air of her 'ead
And chased round the yard with a haxe! "
( " She was that way , yer Washup, yer know. " )

While, as likely as not — 'tis a point she forgot —
That, after she'd fetched him a skelp
He was holding her she-devil hands from his eyes
While she yelped her damned " 'Elp, neighbours, 'elp! "
But His Worship sits back with a look that is black
For the Brute — who is softer than wax
In his own little hell — who would blaspheme and yell
And chase his wife round with a haxe.
( " Bein' that way, yer Washup, yer know. " )

And the witness next door — O that woman once more! —
So swift to imagine and lie,
And mainly because from the perjury laws
She is safe till the sweet by-and-bye.
She is backed by the set who go in for the " Bet-
Tah Protection of Women and Girls "
From the masculine Brute, up from " Billo the Boot "
To po-icks and lords, dooks and earls.
(Why don't they have some of their own?)

Politician and pote, they are in the same boat,
With the writers and hartists and sich,
Young or old, dog or pup, when they try to climb up,
They are always dragged down by the — which?
Fight for money or fame, it is always the same —
Fight for cleanly political life;
And he's shackled and jambed and thrown out for the damned
Political nuisance, his wife.
(I have known one or two, don't you know.)

" Yer work or yer think! Why, I wish yer would drink,
And be like other men if you can.
Me life's simply He-e-ll! Why, I might just as well
Have married a cranky old man. "
If you reason it back, it is nag, lie and clack —
If your temper is anyway lax —
Till she's pulled out of bed by the 'air of her 'ead
And chased round the yard with a haxe.
(She imagines it all, don't you know.)

When talent is young it is bound to be " stung "
By the Tale of Ill-treatment and woe.
She has no friends in town; her mama pushed her down,
And her step-father kicked her — jest so.
But, as years pass away — or a year and a day —
She finds a back seat come amiss,
And goes in for divorce: 'tis the craving, of course,
For police court advertisement, this;
(Police court notoriety, this.)

The man for the State who has tried to go straight,
And won't give her Government cars —
When he puts in a claim for position or name
Might as well send a message to Mars.
For she won't be content till his money is spent
And he feels inspiration no more;
She won't iron his shirt, and she drags in the dirt
The name that she married him for.
(And his friends were so proud of, one time.)

It is always the same with " a bit of a name "
Unless he is humping his swag;
Be he wrong, be he right, he is cursed day and night
By the blasted Australian Nag;
Till he earns, through the yarns that are spread by the liar,
The contempt of a daughter or son,
With his two reputations dragged down in the mud;
And he dies with his best work undone.
(The work of his country undone.)

But I knew of a man with a different plan
(And, mind you, this isn't no kid):
He marshalled the " fax " and he purchased a haxe
And he did all she stated, he did.
Now he's rich and care-free, at the top of the tree,
And she helped him up there, it is said;
And her heart sings about, both with guests and without;
But he keeps the axe under the bed.
(And she knows it is under the bed).