A Hate Song
I hate Men
They irritate me.
There are serious Thinkers—
There ought to be a law against them.
They see life, as through shell-rimmed glasses darkly.
They are always drawing their weary hands
Across their wan brows.
They talk about Humanity
As if they had just invented it;
They have to keep helping it along.
They revel in strikes
And they are eternally getting up petitions.
They are doing a wonderful thing for the Great Unwashed—
They are living right down among them.
They can hardly wait
For “The Masses” to appear on the newsstands,
And they read all those Russian novels—
The sex best sellers.
There are Cave Men—
The Specimens of Red blooded Manhood.
They eat everything very rare,
They are scarcely ever out of their cold baths,
And they want everybody to feel their muscles.
They talk loud voices,
Using short Anglo-Saxon words.
They go around raising windows,
And they slap people on the back,
And tell them what they need is exercise.
They are always just on the point of walking to San Francisco,
Or crossing the ocean in a sailboat,
Or going through Russia on a sled—
I wish to God they would!
And then there are the Sensitive Souls
Who do interior decorating, for Art’s sake?
They always smell faintly of vanilla
And put drops of sandalwood on their cigarettes.
They are continually getting up costume balls
So that they can go
As something out of the “Arabian Nights.”
They give studio teas
Where people sit around on cushions
And wish they