He does his job. He draws his pay.

You sneer, and dine with those that pay him;

And then you write a snobbish play

For democrats, in which you play him.

Ah, yes, you like simplicity

That sucks its cheeks to make the dimple.

But this domestic bourgeoisie

You hate,—because it's all too simple.

You hate the hearth, the wife, the child,

You hate the heavens that bend above them.