We have all got to live, and if women-folk choose
To collar our cribs or to cut down our screws,
They will have to be bread-winners, leaving us chaps
To darn stockings at home with the kids on our laps.
Well, I hope as they'll like it. I tell you what, neighbour,
The world's being ruined by petticoat labour.
Besides, Mate, in spite of this Woman's Rights fuss,
Work don't make 'em better as women, but wuss.
It mucks 'em for marriage, and spiles 'em for home,
'Cos their notion of life is to racket and roam.