The Man I Married

Is he still the man you married?
Asks a current magazine.
On this page I found I tarried.
What in heavens did they mean?

Does he like to take you dancing
(Well, he really never did.)
Or is TV so entrancing
That in darkness he is hid?

Is he slim and trim and dapper
With a healthy head of hair?
(If he is, then I’m a flapper
With no crows feet to repair.)

Just how often are you lazy
And have breakfast served in bed?
(Well, my mem’ry may be hazy,
But I rise or go unfed.)

Does he take you out to dinner —-
Bring you little gifts of sweets?
(Since he knows I should be thinner,
I’d be wary of such treats.)

Does he speak with warm assurance
How his love for you is true?
(After thirty years endurance
And the things that we’ve been through!)

I don’t want the man I married.
I prefer the one I see.
For, in truth, the man I married
Wouldn’t want the likes of me.