“No matter where my route may lie, No matter whither I repair, In brief—no matter how or why Or when I go, the boys are there. On lane and byways, street and square, On alley, path and avenue, They seem to spring up everywhere— The men I am not married to.
I watch them as they pass me by; At each in wonderment I stare, And, “but for heaven’s grace,” I cry, “There goes the guy whose name I’d wear!” They represent no species rare, They walk and talk as others do; They’re fair to see—but only fair— The men I am not married to.
I’m sure that to a mother’s eye Is each potentially a bear. But though at home they rank ace-high, No change of heart could I declare. Yet worry silvers not their hair; They deck them not with sprigs of rue. It’s curious how they do not care— The men I am not married to.”