WOMEN
I’M NOT MARRIED TO
“Whene’er I take my walks”—you know
The rest—“abroad,” I always meet
Elaine or Maude or Anne or Flo,
Belinda, Blanche, or Marguerite;
And Melancholy, bittersweet,
Sets seal upon me when I view—
Coldly, and from a judgment seat—
The women I’m not married to.
Not mine the sighs for Long Ago;
Not mine to mourn the obsolete;
With Burns and Shelley, Keats and Poe
I have no yearning to compete.
No Dead Sea pickled pears I eat;
I never touch a drop of rue;
I toast, and drink my pleasure neat,
The women I’m not married to!
Fate with her celebrated blow
Frequently knocks me off my feet;
And Life her dice box chucks a throw
That usually has me beat.
Yet although Love has tried to treat
Me rough, award the kid his due.
Look at the list, though incomplete:
The women I’m not married to.
L’Envoi My dears whom gracefully I greet,
Gaze at these lucky ladies who
Are of—to make this thing concrete—
The women I’m not married to.
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