Welling from a heart that’s melting, making home,
Interrupted by the stabbing of that wretched thing you said,
Making home.
When the women start a-crying, just to show how glad they feel,
And you rouse upon “herself” a bit to keep the tears to heel,
It’s a lot of silly business, and the whole thing gets you beat;
So before you realize it, you are climbing to the seat
Of your buggy, with the missus, making home,
And the old horse clouts the metal with his heavy awkward feet,
Making home.