CHAPTER ONE
The Song of a Wife, which is Mrs. Solomon’s.
Let him praise me with the words of his mouth; for his flattery is sweeter than wine and his kisses are rarer than orchids.
Lo, my Beloved, thy hair is as stubble, and in the morning it standeth aloft, as a shorn wheat field.
Thy cheek is as a Turkish towel, which caresseth mine.
Thy temples are a shining light, which resembleth a silver polish advertisement.
Thou wearest a derby hat. Thy breath is sweet with cloves.
How fascinating art thou in pajamas, when thy face is covered with shaving lather!
How beautiful are thy feet.
Behold, thou art a collection of habits. Yea, unto these thou art more constant than the family cat.
Whatsoever thou hast done before, that shalt thou do forever and in the same way.
Thou kissest me once in the morning, once in the evening, and twice upon Christmas Day.
Thou clingest unto thine old pipe as unto thy reputation. Thou callest every woman by the same pet name.
Lo, what would my Beloved be without his habits? Even as a doggie’s tail which hath lost its “wag”! But thy heart, oh, my Beloved, is full of lightning changes. Its capacity is inexhaustible.
The memory of yesterday’s kiss is unto thee as the memory of yesterday’s dinner—sweet, but not satisfying.
Yet, though thy heart changeth many times, I, thy wife, am become one of thy habits!
Behold thou hast placed “Mrs.” upon my name; thou hast glorified me with a wedding ring!
Therefore, I am become thy doormat. Yea, I am as thy footstool.
I shall mend thy socks with rejoicing, and the replacing of thy buttons shall be my delight.
All the days of thy life, shall I clean thy safety razor and put the studs in thy shirts.
Then, cast thine ashes over my dressing table and strew my carpets with cigar stumps.
Let the awnings of mine house be burned and my lace curtains consumed with fire. I shall not murmur.
For I am my Beloved’s and there is naught else like unto him.