For thirty years I envied those
Whose wives wore fifteen-dollar hose;
Who had the means to travel far
In iridescent motor-car;
Who smoked their 50ยข cigars,
And lined their basement rooms with bars ;
Whose sons and daughters went to college
To steep themselves in kinds of knowledge
On how to be so rich and foxy
That they might do their work by proxy!
But NOW I’m rather glad that I
‘m a self-reliant sort of guy!
I thought it fun to hire it done,
But now I’m not so sure–
Help can’t be had, which makes it bad
If you’re mechanically immature!
Though help is scarce, I carry on:
I hoe the garden, mow the lawn;
I sickle at the noxious weeds;
Wipe my own nose, and press my tweeds;
I make the beds, and change the baby;
Fix the plumbing–(fix it maybe)–
I scratch the match for my cigar;
I wash my cheap (but TIREless) car;
I am a brass and nickel burnisher;
I wax the dining and kitchen furnisher;
I shine my shoes and tie the strings,
Do other little kindred things;
I scrub, I glue, I fix, I paint–
And all because my money ain’t.
Though socially classed as minus pelf,
I’ve learned to do things for myself!
In spite of which, the idle rich
Retain their smug allure;
Yes, though I boast, I’d rather coast
And be less things done, than poor!
by Ray Romine Saturday, July 31, 1943
