No. 78. The Poor Married Man.
You may tell of the joys of the sweet honeymoon,
I'll agree they are nice while they last;
But in most every case they are over too soon,
And are counted as things of the past.
The troubles and trials are sure to begin,
Though you may do all that you can;
You'll wish you were out of the clatter and din
That follows the poor married man.
With the trouble and fuss, the racket and muss,
His face has grown haggard and wan;
You can tell by his clothes, wherever he goes,
That he is a poor married man.
He works all the day, and tries to be gay,
Forgetting his worry and care;
He whistles it down as he goes through the town,
Though his heart may be full of despair,
For his very last cent must be paid out for rent,
While at home there is Mollie and Dan,
Both crying for shoes it gives him the blues,
To think he's a poor married man.
When he goes to his bed and his poor tired head
He lays on the edge of a rail,
And the colic and croup make him jump up and whoop
Like a dog with a can to his tail.
He must rock, he must walk, he must sing, he must talk,
He must run for the water and fan,
He must bounce, he must leap, he must do without sleep
If he is a poor married man.
From his mother-in-law he gets nothing but jaw,
No matter how hard he may try
To keep her in trim, for she'll light into him
And all of his wishes defy.
He's a fool and a brute, and he never can suit,
Though he does just the best he can.
He had better be dead, for it then can be said,
He's at rest now, the poor married man.