No longer now the housewife makes

Her rare preserves, for what's the good?

The factory round the corner fakes

Raspberry jam with chips of wood.

'Tis so with what we eat and wear,

Our bread, the boots wherein we splosh

'Tis so with what I deemed most fair,

Most virginal of all—the Wash.

'Tis this that chiefly, when I chant,

Fulfils my breast with sighs of ruth,