She’s living on a cloud, they say; She sweeps it carefully each day; She dusts and mops, and scrubs the floor, And when it sparkles, scours some more. She washes, cooks, and sews and cans And budgets, markets, shops and plans.
I hear her singing gaily there On her rose-colored spot of air Until, at four, this housewife fades To turn up glamorest of maids Who, at five, tilts lips tender, proud, Up to the guy who built her cloud.