Every Spring

In the spring a lady's fancy

Lightly turns to drapes and walls

But who's the man who ever can see

Work ahead when pleasure calls?

Says' she, "Let's get this labor going --

Kitchen, bathroom, porch and hall --

Get out the paint brush, start the hoeing,

Can't you hear the springtide's call?"

Says he "We'll start it all tomorrow;

I'm headed, darling, for the links."

And then discovers to his sorrow

That that is merely what he thinks.

For her reply is brisk and simple;

She puts a mop-stick in his hand;

Although her smile disports a dimple,

Her meaning he can understand.

"Your fun is here my spouse ambitious;

You take the mop, I'll take the broom;

The hour's come -- the time's auspicious

To tee-off in the living room."

Without the benefit of caddy

These two began their merry war

And he'd have won, if only had he

Kept his mopping up to par.

But while he moped about his mopping

She swung the broom with blithesome will;

Her pretty brow with sweat was sopping,

His work was all but standing still

At length she paused and quite disdainful

Spoke her mind in deep dismay.

He left the house, disgusted, painful,

Took his clubs and went away.

When  he came home the house was tidy;

The woodwork had a pleasant glow;

Said he, "My dear, tomorrow's Friday;

I'm going to take you to a show!"