Classic Poem

I'm tired of the cackle of women,
At home and in politics too
(Of — Labour — and — Liberal — too),
Of the clack-clack-clack-clacker and screamer,
Of the yell, and the Pouter Goo-Goo.
I am tired of the Fearsome Ill-Treated —
You hear of her everywhere;
And the Cool One that talks on a platform
Two hours without turning a hair.

She cares not a curse for her country,
She cares not a damn for a cause;
She knows what a female baboon does
Of politics, justice or laws.
'Tis NOTICE she craves for her antics,
And by her the country is cursed.
(All women are natural liars
But political women are worst.)

O I am tired of the whine of the Grievance —
For ages our spirits have longed
For rest from the rasp of the Nagger,
For peace from the shriek of the Wronged;
She will swear she was chased with a wood-axe.
You'll find out, when all's done and said,
That her husband's mild sort of Snagsby
Who brings her her breakfast to bed.
(To Hell with that breakfast in bed.)

O I'm sick of the book-writing female! —
As often as not she's a girl
Who ought to be helping her mother
Or putting her hair up in curl.
She slangs all her friends and relations,
She's born to disgust and to vex,
She pretends to hate all men like poison
While she raves of the gender — or sex —
(I refer to the Sex-Problem female;
And to Blazes, I say, with her Sex.)

I'm sick of the piffle of women —
The actress who fainted, almost,
With joy at the scent of the gum leaves,
Some hours before sighting the coast;
Of her mouthing of — dear old Australia — ,
Of the Incident met in the Park;
Of the shots that she fired at the burglar,
And that night she was lost in the Dark.
(Small loss if she'd stayed in the Dark!)

I'm tired of the sniff of the Glarer —
And — O for our blushes and curls!
The bitter old maids in committee
For the — better protection of girls — —
(Or — Females — — that's women and girls.)
They see nought but evil in men's work,
From babies to laws to provide
For the health and pure blood of a nation —
And, Moses, but they've got a hide!
(They couldn't be mild if they tried.)

And I'm tired of the Ladies' Committee,
Of the fads and the fashions they hug,
Where the Foundlings go dead or a-missing
While the patroness christens a pug
In the Board Room got up for the function
With flowers and ribbons and rug;
With cake, wine and tea for the gushers —
No child, but a damn hairy pug!
( — — ! *****! X X X, and the pug.)

I'm sad for the page that is wasted,
Society columns gone mad,
The — Personal — dry hash and rubbish,
The Nobodies wild for an Ad.,
The groan of the Dry Female Faddist
Who'd help us all out of our fix,
The — Marys — , or daughters of Empire
And the Mother of Sixty (or Six).

And, lastly, I'm wearied, O Bully!
Of the Letters and Chatter I scan,
Of the Blanks who sailed last week for Fog Land
And the Damns who are doing Japan;
Of the plans of the James Pecksniff-Smithsons.
I'm tired — now I rise to remark,
Of Cissy McMullock's engagement
To the third son of Wallaby Park —
(Who in Blazes is Wallaby Park?)

But I wonder what Asia would think of
This incomprehensible fuss;
Of our manner of treating our women,
Or the way that we let 'em treat us,
Of our daughters who prance round in nighties
With hobbles and heels past belief:
Half-dressed, but with things they call — panels —
Like the suit of a cannibal chief —
(Fore and aft, like a cannibal chief.)