Mrs. Benjamin Pantier by Edgar Lee Masters

I know that he told that I snared his soul / With a snare which bled him to death.

And all the men loved him, / And most of the women pitied him.

But suppose you are really a lady, and have delicate tastes, / And loathe the smell of whiskey and onions.

And the rhythm of Wordsworth's Ode runs in your ears, / While he goes about from morning till night / Repeating bits of that common thing;

"Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?"

And then, suppose:

You are a woman well endowed, / And the only man with whom the law and morality / Permit you to have the marital relation / Is the very man that fills you with disgust / Every time you think of it -- while you think of it / Every time you see him?

That's why I drove him away from home / To live with his dog in a dingy room / Back of his office.