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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=373873" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Mrs. Benjamin Painter</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=373873" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">I know that he told how I snared his soul <br>With a snare which bled him to death. <br>And all the men loved him, <br>And most of the women pitied him. <br>But suppose you are really a lady, and have delicate tastes, <br>And loathe the smell of whisky and onions. <br>And the rhythm of Wordsworth's "Ode" runs in your ears, <br>While he goes about from morning till night <br>Repeating bits of that common thing; <br>"Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?" <br>And then, suppose: <br>You are a woman well endowed, <br>And the only man with whom the law and morality <br>Permit you to have the marital relation <br>Is the very man that fills you with disgust <br>Every time you think of it--while you think of it <br>Every time you see him? <br>That's why I drove him away from home <br>To live with his dog in a dingy room <br>Back of his office.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Edgar+Lee+Masters">Edgar Lee Masters</a></strong></div>