Time was when spring returned we went
To find another home to rent;
We wanted fresher, cleaner walls,
And bigger rooms and wider halls,
And open plumbing and the dome
That made the fashionable home.
But now with spring we want to sell,
And seek a finer place to dwell.
Our thoughts have turned from dens and domes;
We want the latest thing in homes;
To life we’ll not be reconciled
Until we have a bathroom tiled.
A butler’s pantry we desire,
Although no butler do we hire;
Nell’s life will be one round of gloom
Without a closet for the broom,
And mine will dreary be and sour
Unless the bathroom has a shower.
For months and months we’ve sat and dreamed
Of paneled walls and ceilings beamed
And built-in cases for the books,
An attic room to be the cook’s.
No house will she consent to view
Unless it has a sun room, too.
There must be wash bowls here and there
To save much climbing of the stair;
A sleeping porch we both demand —
This fad has swept throughout the land —
And, Oh, ’twill give her heart a wrench
Not to possess a few doors, French.
I want to dig and walk around
At least full fifty feet of ground;
She wants the latest style in tubs;
I want more room for trees and shrubs,
And a garage, with light and heat,
That can be entered from the street.
The trouble is the things we seek
Cannot be bought for ten-a-week.
And all the joys for which we sigh
Are just too rich for us to buy.
We have the taste to cut a dash:
The thing we’re lacking most is cash.
