Miniver Cheevy Rides Again
You’ve Got a Problem with That?
I sew women’s gingham bonnets.
I assemble covered wagons.
I compose Shakespearean sonnets.
I manufacture magic lantern slides.
I put together lovely hoopskirts.
I cherish Sunday carriage rides.
I still say, “Goodness sakes! Egad!”
I carve crescent moons on outhouse doors.
I wear flowered shirt with pants of plaid.
I dry my clothes on outdoor lines.
I still take trips in Stanley Steamers.
I send prim ladies valentines.
I do not relish obscene chatter.
I will not drink a vodka martini.
I often use iambic pentameter.
I call most women ma’am or miss.
I wear knickerbockers when I golf.
I often use periphrasis.
I still admire Victoria’s reign.
I sell plump ladies rubber girdles.
I still think Spaniards sank the Maine.
I start all lines of verse with capitals.
I manufacture cranks for Model T’s.
I put the fair sex up on pedestals.
I take off hats when I see hearses.
I make spats for gentlemen.
I keep writing rhyming verses.
I’m out of touch? I certainly agree.
But what the hell —I’m eighty-three.