No woman ever can be what he dreams
Nor can such give comfort on the road.
Yet every night he plots and thinks and schemes.
And rarely does he ever go abroad.
No food he eats will satisfy his tongue.
The best wine is as naught to mother’s milk.
He grumbles and will not admit to wrong.
I ‘ve known more men than him of this same ilk.
No bed can be the right one for his sleep.
No sheets and pillows suit his wary skin.
He often has made gentle maidens weep
Crying out they’re fat or boney thin.’
Beware the man who never can adapt
For in his own lone wishes he is trapped
How my heart sings 