Men lodgers are the best, the Mrs. said: They don't use my gas jets to fry sardines, They don't leave red-hot irons on the spread, They're out all morning, when a body cleans. A man ain't so secretive, never cares What kind of private papers he leaves lay, So I can get a line on his affairs And dope out whether he is likely pay. But women! Say, they surely get my bug! They stop their keyholes up with chewing gum, Spill grease, and hide the damage with the rug, And fry marshmallows when their callers come. They always are behindhand with their rents -- Take my advice and let your rooms to gents! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...POE'S COTTAGE AT FORDHAM by JOHN HENRY BONER ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE by WILLIAM COWPER THE BROKEN HEART by JOHN DONNE THE CROWING OF THE RED COCK by EMMA LAZARUS EPITAPHIUM CITHARISTRIAE by VICTOR GUSTAVE PLARR |