"I'd like a trip to Texas, said my single- minded spouse,
When he saw two weeks' vacation drawing near;
His overtime last hectic June would cover Greyhound fare;
Star boarder, he would help my sister dear.
"Twas all so simple - so thought he; just fling a few old clothes
Into a sturdy suitcase, and be off - sans cares and woes.
Without his host had Virgil reckoned, -
A host of relatives,
Who planned stop-over - tours de luxe -
And all that Texas gives.
"Those Moffatt folks are all high class,
And dress in neatest fashion;
You mustn't look run-down-at-the-heel,"
Said I with prideful passion.
I took his shoes to the cobbler shop,
And literally got new heels;
I tried to make him buy new shoes
But a stubborn streak reveals
Itself, as I extol the sale
Of suits in tropical worsted.
He balked completely; said, "My dear,
Our budget's already borsted."
He meekly submitted to fitting galore
In pajamas that didn't fit;
He bowed to my will about new shirts
And discarding the shorts with a slit.
Weary with work, he envisioned sleep
As a lovely morning gem;
Alas! On Mary's scheduled tours
He must rise at 4 a.m.
And there's canasta (he's never learned),
And other plans perplex us;
"And all because " as he heaved a sigh,
"I wanted to trip to Texas.
His bewildered 'widow',
Florence B. Taylor