(By Kennett Harris.)

You tell me that you hold me dear,

You say that for my love you sigh; You're only happy when I'm near.

Without me you would want to die. That's very nice, I won't deny,

Your heart I do not want to break, But will you joke about my pie

And will you scorn the bread I bake?

I've heard of husbands who would sneer

And scold when matters went awry. Who keep their wives in dread and fear,

Who carp and grumble and decry. Of course, you know, I don't imply

That such a course you're apt to take, But how about the chops I fry,

And will you scorn the bread I bake?

Perchance within one fleeting year

You might not rate my charms so high, You might say that my roast was queer

And call it tasteless, burnt and dry, For me all dangers you'd defy,

You'd brave the gallows or the stake, But will you call my coffee lye,

And will you scorn the bread I bake?

L'Envoi

There's this about the marriage tie:

You'd suffer all for my sweet sake, But how about the hats I buy?

And will you scorn the bread I bake?