Classic Poem

Think not, should your husband swear
Furious love and frantic zeal,
He will shave a single hair,
Though, petitioning, you kneel.

Think not, though his eye surveys
Now, your ample girth — his Queen!
He will ever speak with praise
Of that breadth of crinoline.

Now, the happy lover scorns
Gastronomical excess:
You might tread upon his corns,
He your little foot would bless.

Soon the jolly husband sits
Gloating o'er recherche fare:
Ah! where then have gone his wits?
And his taste has gone — Oh, where?