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I dislike men. Dislike them for the strain They put on women. If I didn't have to earn a living I'd snap my fingers at this fading hair of mine And let the colour in my cheeks Begin to go. I'd sit down to it And rock my age in comfort by the fire. Forty-seven and poor— If you're single— Is the devil of a combination for a woman. Every time a married one Comes in to buy a box of rouge I'd like to tell her she's a fool to do it When she's not obliged to look young. Once I said as much And the woman answered "I guess you're not married Or you'd know the reason". . . I dislike men For the strain they put on women.