But he’s an old fogy, you may know by this sign–
He don’t smoke tobacco, drink lager or wine;
And swears that rich gravy, roast pork or chop,
Would kill a big ostrich, if stuffed in his crop.
He told me one day ’bout the pain in my feet,
‘I see what ‘t is ails you–you’ve nothing to eat!’
Provoking, absurd, foolish hint that my health
Was injured by eating what station and wealth
And fashion give right for my sex to enjoy
In spite of the doctors we choose to employ.
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