Whence I drive with my wife in our nightly-jobbed flies.
Home, home, sweet home,
Be it ever so humdrum,
There’s no place like home!
O woe to the morning when, foolishly vain,
I gazed on my wife in the shopkeeper’s pane;
It was only a carte—but with anger I foam
When I think how it’s carted us both from our home.
Home, home, sweet home,
Be it ever so “homey”