  Yes, I love you, dear Matilda, But you may not be my bride, And the obstacles are many Which have caused me to decide. Firstly, what is most annoying, And I'm not above confessing, Is, that I think you indolent, And over-fond of dressing. I've known you spend an hour or two In a-sitting on a chair, And a-fussing and attending To your toilet or your hair. You may say a simple thing— Yet, Matilda, I must own it, I object to hear you sing. For the sounds you make in singing Are so very much like squalling, That the only term appropriate To them is caterwauling. Indeed, I've never heard such horrid Noises in my life, And I'd certainly not tolerate Such singing in a wife. And, Matilda dear, your language! It is really very bad; The expressions which you use at times, They make me feel quite sad. It is very, very shocking, But I do not mind declaring That I've heard some sounds proceeding From your lips so much like swearing, That I've had to raise a finger, And to close at least one ear, For I couldn't feel quite certain What bad words I mightn't hear. But worse than this, Matilda: I hear, with pious grief, Many rumours that Matilda Is no better than a thief And I'm shocked to find my darling So entirely lost to feeling, As to go and give her mind up Unto picking and a-stealing. Oh, Matilda! pray take warning, For a prison cell doth yearn For a person that appropriates And takes what isn't her'n. You stay out late at night. Now, Matilda dear, you must confess To do this is not right. Where you go to, dear, or what you do, There really is no telling, And with rage and indignation My fond foolish heart is swelling. Yet the faults which I've enumera- Ted can't be wondered at, When one realises clearly That "Matilda"—is a cat. |
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