On Monday nights he grabs some grub
And off he goes to Fellowcraft club.
On Tuesday nights, alone she sits,
While he to Blue Lodge session flits.
She stays at home each Wednesday night;
He has to go to Scottish Rite
On Thursdays she’d go out to dine
But that’s his night for Mystic Shrine.
On Friday it’s, “Goodbye, my sweet,
Tonight Blue Lodge committees meet!”
On Saturdays he fades from view;
He has a coaching job to do.
And Sundays it’s Excuse me, please,
We’re practicing the three degrees.
For her the laggard moments crawl;
She never does get out at all.
But if there’s justice far or near,
When they have left this earthly sphere,
Somewhere out in the heavens far
She will preside o’er Eastern Star.
As richly gowned as any bride
A handsome Patron at her side,
Floral addenda every night,
And drill teams that do all things right.
Dining at rich repasts served late,
But never, never gaining weight.
While he, poor wretch, is chained at home,
No more the Temple courts to roam.
He has to dust and sweep the floors
And tend to all the household chores,
And care for sixteen dogs and cats
And half a dozen squalling brats!
If there’s a moral, this is it:
Wives, too, like to get out a bit.
So, hubby, here’s a tip for you:
You have to go to Lodge, that’s true;
But keep love’s bloom in wifey’s cheek,
And let her out — say, once a week!