Ah, Poll, my girl, a woman's work is Labour, and no skulking.
It must go on though yer old man's out of a job or sulking.
Mothers can't strike, or unionise, or make demonsterations.
The bloke 'as got the bulge on them. Now girls in situations,
Like you and me, Poll, 'as a chance of larky nights and jolly days,
Along of arter bizness 'ours, and, now and then, the 'olidays.
But 'twixt the cradle and the tub, the old man and 'er needle,
A married woman's tied up tight. Yus, Mick may spoon and wheedle,
But when a woman's got four kids, bad 'ealth, and toke for tiffin,
Then marriage is a failure, Poll, I give yer the straight griffin.