I know that he told how I snared his soul <br />With a snare which bled him to death. <br />And all the men loved him, <br />And most of the women pitied him. <br />But suppose you are really a lady, and have delicate tastes, <br />And loathe the smell of whisky and onions. <br />And the rhythm of Wordsworth's "Ode" runs in your ears, <br />While he goes about from morning till night <br />Repeating bits of that common thing; <br />"Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?" <br />And then, suppose: <br />You are a woman well endowed, <br />And the only man with whom the law and morality <br />Permit you to have the marital relation <br />Is the very man that fills you with disgust <br />Every time you think of it--while you think of it <br />Every time you see him? <br />That's why I drove him away from home <br />To live with his dog in a dingy room <br />Back of his office.<br /><br />Edgar Lee Masters<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/mrs-benjamin-painter/
