From the Omaha Daily Bee, December 9, 1912. A yard or two of stuff that’s called a skirt, A waist that’s made of some expensive lace, A pair of shoes that are so tight they hurt, Some padding out in just the proper place, A hat that costs nine times what it is worth; A peck or two of someone else’s hair; A complexion bought most anywhere on earth, A corset that is too tight everywhere, A bundle of artistic temperament, A flow of conversation that is light, A passing whiff of some delicious scent, A show of vanity from morn till night— And that’s a woman. A bag of wind inflated without cause; A blowhard and an ardent egotist Who knows more than the ones who made the laws; A set of teeth, a mustache and a fist; Some shoulders that are padded out of shape; A smell of burned tobacco that is stale; A blossom on the nose from festive grape; Some stories that make modest folk turn pale; A punk cigar that sizzles all day long; A thing whose chiefest aim is just to eat; A party who is right, all others wrong, Who’s always 99 per cent conceit— And that’s a man.
Easing a Grouch
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